THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


\ 


. 


•    Sons  Sc 


Poetical  and  Prose  Writings 


r. 
THE  MILFORD  BARD, 


CONSISTING    OF 


Sketches  in  Poetry  and  Prose, 


oiVoVoX).     ®  xJbuuwAx)  .     ©«mWvemlaX)  j     ©wmkaMuMclj     /anrwSi    (yvwrnoVojuA. 


portrait  of  i\)t  Siitlior  onb  a  ShftrJ  of  $$  fife. 


Tfl  3       ' 


-* — « — •» 


BALTIMORE: 

PRINTED  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  JOHN  MURPHY  &  CO, 
JVo.    178    Market    Street. 

WILMINGTON: — J.  T.  HEALD, 

Sold  by  Booksellers  generally. 
1853. 


ENTERED,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1852, 

Bt    JOHN    MURPHY    fc    CO. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Maryland. 


LS 


AS 
TO   THE   LADIES   OF   BALTIMORE, 

WHO     HAD 

SHOWN  KINDNESS  TO  THE  BARD  IN  SICKNESS, 
AND    UNDER   OTHER    CIRCUMSTANCES    OF    AFFLICTION, 

AND 
TO  WHOSE  SOLICITATIONS  HE  YIELDED  IN    ITS    PUBLICATION* 


WAS     MOST     RESPECTFULLY     AND     AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 

BY     THEIR     OBLIGED     AND     DEVOTED     FRIEND, 


n 

er  . 


so 

TO    THE    SAME, 

• 

ASSOCIATED     WITH 

€()£  f aiits  af  Utlmfnfltan, 

WHO     WERE     NO     LESS     ATTENTIVE     TO     THE     HARP 
DURING    THE    LATER   YEARS    OF    HIS    LIFE, 

AND 
UNTIL     HE     WAS     REMOVED     FROM     THIS     WORLD 

BY  THE  HAND  OF  DEATH, 
IS  THIS  LARGER  AND  MORE  EXTENDED  EDITION, 

ON  BEHALF  OF  THE  LATE  LAMENTED  SON  OF  SONG, 

DEDICATED     BY     THEIR     FRIEND, 


759396 


nfau. 


the  death  of  the  MILFORD  BARD  the  desire  has  been 
repeatedly  expressed  by  his  numerous  friends  and  admirers, 
that  his  Writings  should  be  collected  and  published  in  a 
much  more  enlarged  and  extended  edition,  than  has  here- 
tofore been  submitted  to  the  public.  It  is  with  the  view 
of  meeting  the  demand  thus  presented,  that  this  volume  of 
his  works  has  been  compiled.  It  contains  his  best  pieces,  both  of  Poetry 
and  Prose,  the  most  of  which  have  not  appeared  in  any  previous  volume. 
It  is  due,  alike,  to  the  author  and  the  public,  that  the  literary  efforts 
of  one  so  well  known  and  appreciated  as  the  Milford  Bard,  should  be 
collected  and  embodied  in  a  form  in  which  they  may  be  preserved  by  the 
lovers  of  light  literature,  and  read  as  opportunities  may  be  afforded. 
Many  an  hour  may  be  spent,  both  pleasantly  and  profitably,  in  the  pe- 
rusal of  the  sketches  of  life  and  character,  and  poetic  effusions,  which  the 
generous-hearted  Bard  possessed  so  much  delight  in  preparing  for  his 
readers. 

As  a  contributor  to  many  of  the  most  popular  and  interesting  periodi- 
cals of  his  day,  the  Bard  obtained  a  very  considerable  reputation,  and  his 
productions  have  been  popular  wherever  circulated.  In  his  younger  years, 
being  favorably  known  as  a  correspondent  of  "The  Casket,"  a  Monthly 
Magazine,  and  "The  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  a  Weekly  Newspaper, 
both  of  extensive  circulation,  his  reputation  as  a  writer  was  established, 
and  his  productions  were  much  sought  after.  Both  the  Casket  and  Sa- 
turday Evening  Post  were  published  in  Philadelphia,  and  being  the  media 
through  which  the  Bard  and  other  authors  presented  their  writings  to  the 
public,  their  circulation  extended  to  all  parts  of  the  country. 

During  his  residence  in  Baltimore,  at  a  later  period  of  his  life,  the  Bard 
contributed,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  to  nearly  all  the  periodicals  of  the 


VI  PREFACE. 

city.  He  wrote  principally,  however,  for  the  Baltimore  Patriot.  With  the 
editors  of  that  paper  he  was  well  acquainted,  and  he  received  from  them 
many  evidences  of  their  favorable  regard. 

Subsequently  he  removed  his  residence  to  Wilmington,  Delaware,  where 
he  became  the  Literary  Editor  of  a  well  conducted  literary  and  commercial 
journal,  published  in  that  city,  under  the  title  of  "The  Blue  Hen's 
Chicken,"  which  paper  was  owned  and  edited  by  Messrs.  W.  T.  Jean- 
dell  and  F.  Vincent,  both  warm  and  devoted  friends  of  the  Bard.  To  Mr. 
Jeandell  he  was  particularly  attached.  He  acknowledged  with  gratitude 
the  kindness  and  attention  shown  him,  both  by  that  gentleman  and  his 
family.  The  stories  of  the  Bard,  published  in  Wilmington,  were  founded 
upon  circumstances  in  real  life.  This  gave  them  additional  interest,  and 
caused  them  to  be  widely  circulated.  On  the  publication  of  "The  Broken 
Heart,"  which  will  be  found  on  page  201  of  this  volume,  thirty-five  hun- 
dred copies  of  the  paper  were  issued,  and  they  were  all  immediately  dis- 
posed of;  and  fell  far  short  of  the  demand.  The  story  is  founded  upon 
a  circumstance  well  known  at  the  time  of  its  occurrence,  and  in  the  vi- 
cinity where  it  took  place.  Many  of  its  incidents  are  of  thrilling  interest, 
and  are  narrated  in  a  manner  that  will  bear  comparison  with  the  efforts 
of  some  of  the  best  authors  of  the  day. 

The  pieces  here  published  are  of  various  character,  style  and  merit. 
They  form  a  volume  adapted  alike  to  the  Library,  the  Boudoir  and  the 
Centre-Table.  It  is  intended  for  a  GIFT  BOOK  appropriate  to  all  seasons. 
It  will  afford  instruction  and  amusement  alike  to  the  old  and  the  young; 
and  will  serve  as  the  instrument  by  means  of  which  many  an  otherwise 
weary  hour  may  be  pleasantly  whiled  away. 

THE    EDITOR. 
BALTIMORE,  November  23,  1852. 


PAGE 

MEMOIR  OF  THE  MILFORD  BARD 1  to  30 

PROSE. 

The  Wizard  of  Valley  Forge,  or  the  Revenge  of  the  Mysterious  Man. ...  25 

The  Sequel,  or  the  Revelation  of  the  Mysterious  Man 71 

Tour  to  Valley  Forge .104 

Ono-keo-co,  or  the  Bandit  of  the  Brandy  wine 121 

The  Dream  of  Love 174 

The  Birth  of  Christ 183 

Christ  on  Calvary 192 

The  Broken  Heart,  or  Virtue  Triumphant  in  Death 201 

The  Triumphs  of  Learning 263 

The  Quaker  Merchant,  or  the  Generous  Man  Rewarded 273 

The  Bible 300 

Dialogue  on  Human  Happiness 305 

The  Courtship  versus  the  Rum  Jug 314 

The  Duel,  or  the  Dream  of  Love 328 

The  Buggaboo 345 

Love  a  la  Mode,  or  the  Boatman's  Daughter 357 

Helen  Mac  Trever:  a  Tale  of  the  Battle  of  Brandywine 408 

The  Muzzled  Dog 446 

The  Humming-Bird's  Nest 461 

The  Curiosities  of  Science,  No.  1 489 

"  "          "        "         "     2 500 

Manitoo,  the  Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  and  Wild  Harry  of  Wil- 
mington  521 

Ruins  of  Time 569 

POETRY. 

What  is  Hope  ? , 103 

The  Washington  Monument 116 

Prayer  for  Greece ,,.,........... 117 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Last  Patriot  of  those  who  signed  the  Declaration  of  Independence...  118 

0  Erin  Arise ! 119 

Cupid  in  Exile 120 

Concealed  Affection 167 

The  Lady  Isabel 168 

Fame 171 

The  Dream 172 

Female  Charms 173 

Death  of  MacDonough 181 

The  Grandeur  of  God 182 

The  Infant  Saviour 191 

Lines 200 

Slander 255 

The  Neglected  Wife 256 

Memory 257 

The  Battle  of  Brandywine,  September  11,  1777 259 

Love  and  Reason 270 

Hope 271 

0  there  are  Tears 272 

Love's  Pilgrimage  round  the  World 296 

The  Stolen  Kiss 297 

To  the  Cottage  Maid 298 

St.  Paul  at  Athens 302 

The  Dying  Deist 303 

Address  to  the  Moon 312 

Ambition's  Hope , 313 

The  Cathedral  Bell,  Baltimore 320 

The  Sisters  of  Charity 321 

Retrospection 322 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Isabel  Terry 323 

Solemn  Reflections 324 

Speech  of  Logan 325 

Sunrise  at  Sea 327 

The  Monkey  Outwitted 339 

Delaware 342 

There  I  met  fair  Mary  Jane 343 

Evening  on  the  First  of  June , 344 

Spirit  of  Niagara 351 

The  Great  Battle 353 

Poland 354 

Palsy  of  the  Soul 355 

Autumn , 356 

Woman's  Worth.........  403 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 

Why  don't  he  Come? 404 

To  the  Charmer 405 

Love's  Changes , 406 

To  a  Friend 407 

The  Poor  Man's  Death-Bed  and  Burial 434 

Thoughts,  while  standing  on  the  Battle-ground  at  Chadd's  Ford 435 

The  Banks  of  the  Brandywine 438 

Skepticism 444 

To  Dr.  John  W.  Dorsey,  of  Liberty-Town,  Maryland 442 

Lines  written  on  a  Tombstone  over  a  Young  Lady 445 

Adam's  Love  for  Eve 456 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Mrs.  Ann  Talley,  wife  of  Mr.  Elihu  Talley,  of 

Brandywine 457 

To  Mrs.  Rachel  Jeandell,  of  Wilmington. 459 

Lines  addressed  to  my  young  friend  M 460 

The  Dead  Bird 467 

The  New  Year 468 

My  Sister 469 

Eulogy  on  the  Life  and  Death  of  Dr.  Joshua  Howard  Dorsey,  of  Liberty- 
Town,  Maryland 470 

Reflections  on  the  Death  of  James  Manning 473 

Extempore  Lines  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Garret  S.  Layton,  of  Milford,  Del.  .474 

Woman's  Heart 475 

Departed  Days 476 

Clawing  Off 477 

The  Muse  of  Poesy 479 

Virtue 480 

The  Flowers 481 

The  Fair  Gondolier 483 

The  Lexington 485 

The  Wandering  Minstrel 487 

The  Son  of  the  Sea , 488 

A  Poet's  Garret 510 

Fancy 512 

The  Post  Office 513 

Winter's  Coming 515 

To  the  Duellist 516 

Memory  of  Decatur 517 

The  Revenge 518 

Real  Pleasure , 519 

Pride , 520 

Departure  of  La  Fayette 557 

Pathetic  Stanzas 558 

B 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Fragment 559 

The  Seasons 561 

Female  Tenderness 562 

The  Silkworm 563 

To  a  Lady,  who  rejected  my  offering  of  Flowers. . .    564 

All  is  Vanity 565 

The  Advent  of  Christ 566 

O  I  have  leaned 568 

Thoughts 574 

Benjamin  Franklin 575 

Henry  Clay 576 

John  duincy  Adams 577 

Death  of  John  duincy  Adams 578 

Daniel  Webster 580 

The  Jubilee,  and  Death  of  Adams  and  Jefferson 581 

John  M.  Clayton 582 

Napoleon  Bonaparte 583 

Bolivar 584 

Retrospection 585 

Last  Lines  of  the  Bard 586 


man  u 


HIGHLY  responsible  and  interesting,  but  melancholy 
duty  is  imposed  upon  the  biographer  of  the  MILFORD 
BARD.  It  would,  at  any  time,  be  a  difficult  task  to  do 
justice  to  the  character  of  one,  whose  life  was  marked  by 
so  many  varying  vicissitudes,  nearly  all  under  his  own 
control,  and  materially  effective  in  his  person  and  habits. 
And  more  especially  is  this  the  case  at  the  present  pe- 
riod— a  date  so  early  after  his  death,  and  while  the  re- 
membrance of  his  person  and  deeds  are  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  his  friends,  and  his  literary  performances  so 
recent  in  the  view  of  the  public.  It  is  not  yet  four  years 
since  the  Bard  was  in  the  midst  of  his  friends,  in  the 
activity  and  vigor  of  manhood,  pursuing  his  calling  as 
the  editor  of  a  popular  periodical,  and  the  contributor  of  some  of  the  best 
and  most  interesting  of  his  writings  to  its  columns.  After  a  brief  illness  he 
was  snatched  away  by  the  grasp  of  the  ruthless  destroyer.  He  is  gone;  but 
his  memorial  is  with  his  numerous  admirers.  Long  will  they  remember  his 
blandness  of  manner;  his  ease  and  freedom  of  intercourse  with  society;  his  fine 
conversational  powers;  his  gentleness;  his  waywardness;  his  wanderings;  his 
struggles  against  his  besetting  vice — intemperance;  and  his  arduous  labors  for 
the  instruction  and  amusement  of  the  public. 

JOHN  LOFLAND,  the  MILFORD  BARD,  was  the  eldest  son  of  Isaac  and 
Cynthia  Lofland.  He  was  born  in  Milford,  Delaware,  on  the  ninth  day  of 
March,  in  the  year  1798.  Isaac  Lofland  was  a  respectable  merchant  of  Mil- 
ford,  and  Cynthia,  his  wife,  was  one  of  the  most  affectionate  and  frugal  wo- 
men of  her  day.  Her  son  John,  the  subject  of  this  memoir,  appears  to  have 
been  her  favorite,  and  it  is  not  unlikely  that  in  the  earlier  years  of  his  child- 
hood, he  was  allowed  the  free  exercise  of  his  own  will,  with,  perhaps,  very 
little  restraint.  Inheriting  the  kind  and  gentle  disposition  of  his  mother,  his 
fondness  for  her  gave  him  easy  access  to  her  affections,  to  which  he  appealed 
on  every  occasion  of  real  or  fancied  oppression.  With  childhood  these  occa- 
sions are  neither  few  nor  slight,  and  almost  always  accompanied  with  the  de- 
mand for  redress.  With  such  a  child  in  charge  of  such  a  mother,  the  exercise 


A  MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

of  parental  discipline  was  both  difficult  and  uncertain,  and  allowed  a  latitude  of 
desire  and  pursuit  on  the  part  of  the  child,  not  at  all  favorable  to  the  formation 
of  a  determined  and  decisive  character. 

Isaac  Lofland,  the  father  of  the  Bard,  \ras  a  man  of  more  ability  than  educa- 
tion; and  the  opportunity  he  possessed  for  the  exercise  of  either  was  not  very 
extensive.  To  his  mother,  rather  than  to  him,  he  was  indebted  for  whatever 
he  possessed  of  prominent  points  of  character,  such,  at  least,  as  may  be  con- 
sidered inheritable.  This  was  the  opinion  of  the  Bard  himself,  and  appears  in 
several  forms  of  expression  in  his  writings.  It  was  a  matter  of  pride  to  him 
that  he  could  boast  of  hereditary  character  in  the  maternal  relation;  and  while 
but  little  is  said  of  his  father  in  all  his  numerous  published  efforts,  they  teem 
with  allusions  to  his  mother,  and  with  the  most  affectionate  and  tender  expres- 
sions of  love  and  devoted  attachment. 

It  was  the  desire  and  purpose  of  Isaac  Lofland  that  his  son  should  receive  a 
good  education.  In  this  his  wife  most  heartily  acquiesced,  for  she  was 
anxiously  desirous  that  he  should  be  enabled  to  occupy  a  respectable  position 
in  society.  To  carry  out  this  design  he  was  sent  to  school  when  he  was  very 
young.  But,  either  the  first  teacher  that  was  employed  to  conduct  his  studies 
was  utterly  incompetent  for  the  task,  or  the  Bard  himself  was  a  very  dull  pupil. 
It  is  said  that  it  was  full  six  months  before  he  mastered  the  alphabet.  The 
promise  of  distinction  so  anxiously  desired  by  his  parents,  was  not  in  any 
manner  realized  during  the  first  few  years  of  his  childhood.  His  progress  for 
some  years,  was  measured  by  the  same  slow  and  unsatisfying  pace  that  made 
memorable  the  first  six  months  of  his  scholastic  career.  He  conceived  such 
an  utter  dislike  to  mathematics,  upon  the  very  threshold  of  the  study,  that  he 
could  never  after  be  induced  to  pursue  it  with  any  degree  of  interest.  It  is 
probable  that  his  dislike  for  the  study  of  the  languages  was  but  little  less  than 
that  which  he  entertained  for  the  pursuit  of  mathematics.  He  made  some 
proficiency  in  Latin  and  French.  Greek,  as  a  study,  he  did  not  relish,  though 
he  admired  the  language.  He  tolerated  Valpy  to  get  rid  of  the  problems  of 
Euclid.  But  the  slow  and  indifferent  progress  of  the  Bard,  in  the  ordinary 
studies  of  the  schools,  was  by  no  means  indicative  of  his  mental  energy  and 
power.  His  forte  was  reading  and  composition.  He  was  passionately  de- 
voted to  history,  and  the  lives  and  works  of  eminent  men,  especially  the  poets. 
He  was  contented  only  when  he  could  be  occupied  with  his  favorite  authors, 
either  poring  over  their  works,  or  imitating  their  styles  of  composition.  Thus 
employed,  he  spent  much  of  the  time  of  his  youthful  years,  that  he  afterwards 
regretted  was  not  occupied  in  the  acquirement  of  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
less  interesting  branches  of  his  scholastic  education. 

In  composition  the  Bard  excelled  at  an  early  age.  When  but  twelve  years 
old  he  wrote  some  well  measured  and  sensible  poetry.  Some  of  his  verses 
were  written  at  an  earlier  period  of  his  life,  and  although  they  bore  the  evi- 


MEMOIR    OP    THE    MILFOHD    BARD.  O 

dences  of  a  mind  yet  unmatured,  they  were  not  without  merit,  and  gave  pro- 
mise of  future  distinction  in  that  department  of  literature. 

It  is  not  known  whether  the  very  slow  progress  of  the  Bard  in  the  studies  of 
his  early  childhood,  and  his  dislike  to  some  of  those  of  his  more  advanced 
youth,  were  the  result  of  his  own  natural  dulness,  or  were  occasioned  by  the 
incompetency  of  his  teacher.  Some  of  his  relations  are  of  opinion  that  his 
mental  powers  were  fully  equal  to  those  of  the  boys  generally  of  his  age,  and 
that  the  deficiency  is  entirely  chargeable  to  the  person  that  was  entrusted  with 
his  education.  On  behalf  of  the  teacher,  no  argument  can  be  used  to  disprove 
the  indictment  for  incompetency.  In.  relation  to  the  boy,  there  are  proofs 
enough  that  there  was  no  lack  of  mental  ability.  His  capacity  was  de- 
veloped sufficiently  early  to  satisfy  his  friends  that  he  began  life  not  only  mens 
sana,  but  mens  sana  in  corpore  sana;  and  was  fully  able  to  do  his  part  in  a  fair 
and  impartial  attack  upon  the  alphabet,  or  any  other  lesson  contained  in  his 
primer.  Had  the  instructor  shown  fair-play,  doubtless  those  potent  adver- 
saries, the  A  B  C's,  had  fallen  one  by  one  before  the  rising  intellect  of  the 
future  Bard. 

There  are,  no  doubt,  many  persons  who  assume  the  profession  of  the 
teacher,  who  are  altogether  insufficient  for  the  arduous  duties  of  that  very  re- 
sponsible and  interesting  office.  And  there  are,  no  doubt,  many  young  pupils 
who  are  dull  of  apprehension,  and  indisposed  to  receive  instruction.  An  ac- 
tive, energetic,  faithful  teacher,  may  remove  many  an  impediment  out  of  the 
way  of  his  young  charge,  and  lead  him  on  almost  imperceptibly,  in  the  pursuit 
of  his  studies,  until  the  duty  may  become  a  pleasure,  and  the  labor  a  welcome 
employment.  But  on  the  contrary,  if  the  teacher  be  incompetent,  or  indolent, 
or  unfaithful,  the  study  of  the  pupil  becomes  a  laborious  and  irksome  task — 
a  difficult,  tedious  pursuit;  and  if  he  be  not  worn  down  by  the  oppression,  in 
his  heart  he  learns  to  despise  the  performance,  and  to  hate  the  necessity  that 
enforces  it.  Such  may  have  been  the  case  with  the  youthful  Lofland,  and 
difficulties  may  thereby  have  been  placed  in  his  path,  the  removal  of  which 
may  have  cost  him  many  an  hour  of  anxious  concern  and  arduous  labor. 

The  fact  that  a  child  is  six  months  learning  the  alphabet,  is  no  proof  of 
mental  imbecility,  nor  of  natural  dulness.  But  considered  in  connection  with 
the  hundreds  and  thousands  of  other  facts  of  the  kind,  that  are  constantly  oc- 
curring, it  should  be  a  warning  to  parents  and  the  guardians  of  youth  and 
childhood,  to  exercise  great  care  and  judgment  in  the  selection  of  the  in- 
structors of  their  children  and  wards.  Regarded  in  this  most  important  rela- 
tion, it  should  induce  all  who  have  charge  of  the  young,  in  their  growing  and 
improving  years,  to  give  some  attention  themselves  to  their  studies.  The  im- 
press of  character  is  generally  made  very  early.  In  the  responsibility  of  this 
impress,  the  mother  of  the  child,  and  its  first  teacher,  are  mainly  interested. 
One  false  step  on  the  part  of  either,  may  lead  to  irretrievable  ruin.  Indul- 
gence, or  too  great  seventy,  on  the  part  of  the  mother,  or  inrovnpetency,  in- 


4  MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

difference,  or  unfaithfulness,  on  the  part  of  the  teacher,  may  induce  habits  of 
indolence,  or  reckless  disregard  of  restraint,  that  may  be  a  perpetual  impedi- 
ment in  the  way  of  the  youthful  charge,  or  cause  him  to  hurry  on  through  the 
years  of  his  minority,  with  a  fixed  unconcern  for  consequences,  and  neither 
fear  nor  care  in  relation  to  the  result. 

It  was  doubtless  the  Bard's  misfortune  that  he  was  not  properly  trained  in 
early  life.  There  was  a  lamentable  failure  somewhere  among  those  who  were 
intrusted  with  his  education.  An  examination  of  his  history  suggests  the  idea 
that  he  was  not,  in  the  scholastic  sense  of  the  term,  educated  at  all,  but  was  suf- 
fered to  educate  himself,  and  pursued  his  way  through  the  years  of  childhood 
and  youth,  without  any  fixed  views  either  of  business  or  of  character.  The 
facts  of  his  life  and  features  of  his  character,  yet  to  be  noticed,  afford  proof  of 
the  correctness  of  this  idea. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen  his  reading  had  been  extensive,  and  had  his  education 
been  properly  managed,  his  character  would  have  been  formed.  His  mind  at 
that  age  was  well  stored  with  facts,  but  he  had  not  the  judgment  necessary  to 
enable  him  to  make  a  proper  use  of  them.  Recurring  in  after  years  to  that 
interesting  period,  he  made  the  record  which  serves  as  a  way-mark  in  his  in- 
definite career.  "In  my  earlier  years,"  said  he,  " I  was  skeptical ,  though  I 
had  listened  to  many  a  pious  lecture  at  the  feet  of  one  of  the  most  affectionate 
of  mothers.  I  had  read  the  French  and  English  skeptics  at  fourteen  years  of  age, 
with  boyhood's  avidity  and  with  boyhood's  judgment.  I  dreamt  over  the  pages  of 
Voltaire,  D'Alembert,  Diderot,  Maupertuis,  Rousseau,  Condorcet,  Volney, 
Hume,  Gibbon,  with  a  host  of  others,  and  I  awoke  an  infidel.  But  believing 
it  to  be  unfair  to  study  on  the  one  side  and  not  on  the  other,  I  turned  to  the 
Sacred  Scriptures,  and,  endeavoring  to  establish  skepticism,  I  was  convinced  of 
my  error." 

At  this  point  of  his  life,  we  discover  the  Bard'  s  need  of  the  mathematics, 
and  other  branches  of  his  education,  the  study  of  which  he  so  heartily  dis- 
liked in  his  younger  years.  Upon  the  solid  foundation  that  these  might  have 
afforded  him,  he  might  have  reared  a  superstructure,  which,  while  it  would 
have  done  honor  to  his  character,  might  have  been  the  means  of  accomplishing 
much  good  among  mankind.  He  was  certainly  allowed  his  own  way  to  a  very 
great  extent  in  the  pursuit  of  his  reading,  and  his  little  bark  upon  the  sea  of 
life  at  fourteen,  carried  a  dangerous  freight  of  knowledge.  But  for  the  coun- 
sels of  his  mother,  which  he  so  highly  treasured,  it  might  have  mingled  poison 
with  the  waters  through  which  it  passed,  or  foundered  prematurely  upon  the 
sands  of  infidelity.  It  was  to  her  instructions  that  he  was  indebted  for  the 
desire  to  hear  both  sides  of  the  important  question  that  troubled  him, — whether 
Christianity  were  truth  or  false.  The  impression  her  "  pious  lectures  "  made 
upon  his  mind,  induced  him  to  study  the  Scriptures,  and  although  he  pursued 
that  study  with  the  view  of  having  his  skeptical  notions  confirmed,  the  sacred 
oracles  were  to  him  their  own  interpreter,  and  performed  the  wonderful 


MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  5 

work  of  removing  the  mass  of  prejudice  he  had  accumulated  against  them. 
Throughout  his  wayward  life  he  was  sometimes  disposed  to  play  the  skeptic, 
but  whenever  he  reasoned  with  himself,  he  became  ashamed  of  the  weakness, 
and  arose  from  it  with  renewed  purposes  of  a  steadier  and  more  faithful  course. 
The  following  extract  from  the  passage  already  partly  quoted,  shows  his  at- 
tachment to  the  Christian  religion,  and  is  a  grateful  tribute  to  the  memory  of 
his  mother's  instructions. 

"  Did  the  Christian  religion  extend  no  further  than  this  life,  I  should  advo- 
cate it,  because  it  is  a  blessing  to  society.  My  life  has  been  a  wild  one,  but 
my  heart  is  in  the  right  place.  In  me  nature  is  reversed,  for  my  heart  governs 
my  head.  Whenever  I  am  disposed  to  wander  from  the  path  of  virtue,  the 
memory  of  the  silvery  voice  of  my  mother  in  childhood,  comes  sighing  in  my 
ear,  sweet  as  the  harp  of  heaven  to  a  dying  saint.  My  heart  melts  with  ten- 
derness, and  I  am  saved." 

How  much  like  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  wayward  contemporary,  were 
those  of  the  Bard  when  the  memory  of  his  mother  and  her  affectionate  instruc- 
tions were  recalled  in  his  reveries  ? 

"My  mother's  voice,  how  often  creeps 
Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours, 
Like  visions  on  the  wings  of  sleep, 
Or  dew  on  the  unconscious  flowers? 
And  years  of  sin  and  manhood  flee, 
And  leave  me  on  my  mother's  knee." 

At  seventeen,  the  Bard  concluded  that  his  school-boy  days  were  over,  and 
tvirned  his  thoughts  upon  the  profession  that  he  was  to  pursue  in  life.  After 
some  deliberation  he  decided  upon  Medicine,  and  commenced  the  study  in  the 
office  of  his  cousin,  Dr.  James  P.  Lofland.  He  attended  the  lectures  of  the 
University  of  Pennsylvania  three  successive  years.  When  he  was  nearly 
through  his  studies  and  preparing  for  graduation,  a  misunderstanding  occurred 
between  Professor  Cox,  of  the  University,  and  himself,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  left  the  Institution,  and  gave  up  his  purpose  of  entering  the  Medical 
Profession.  He  was  pleased  with  the  Science  of  Medicine  as  a  study,  but  he 
frequently  declared  that  he  despised  the  drudgery  of  its  practice.  The  misun- 
derstanding with  Professor  Cox,  produced  a  revulsion  in  his  mind  in  relation 
to  the  honors  of  the  University,  and  prevented  him  from  graduating  under  its 
authority.  He  has  often  said  that  he  did  not  lose  much  in  the  loss  of  his 
diploma,  for  it  would  have  been  impossible  that  he  could  ever  have  made  his 
living  in  the  profession.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  the  different  branches 
of  medical  study,  and  not  unfrequently  gave  advice  to  the  sick  and  prescribed 
for  them. 

In  the  hasty  manner  in  which  the  Bard  gave  up  the  profession  that  he  had 
expended  more  than  three  years  in  preparing  to  follow,  we  have  another  sad 


6  MEMOIR    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

result  of  the  unfortunate  neglect  of  his  early  education.  It  is  an  evidence  of 
lack  of  power  in  the  concentration  of  his  energies;  and  it  doubtless  originated 
in  the  loose  and  indefinite  manner  in  which  he  was  permitted  to  pass  through 
his  youthful  years.  Had  he  been  placed  at  school  under  the  care  of  an  effi- 
cient instructor,  and  kept  at  his  studies  until  he  had  thoroughly  mastered  them, 
it  is  very  likely  that  he  would  have  obtained  the  control  of  his  own  faculties 
in  the  effort,  and  instead  of  being  the  sport  of  a  wild  and  reckless  imagination 
through  life,  he  might  have  settled  down  in  some  active  pursuit,  and  main- 
tained a  prominent  position  in  the  community.  He  was  certainly  possessed  of 
a  considerable  share  of  mental  power;  but  it  was  turned  to  but  little  account 
because  he  had  no  control  over  himself.  He  had  no  advantages  in  the  school 
of  experience.  Life  with  him  was  a  rambling  adventure,  and  he  met  its 
changes  of  wayward  fortune  with  stoical  indifference. 

Parents  sometimes  boast  of  what  they  regard  a  versatility  of  talent  in  their 
children,  but  which  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the  fickleness — the  unsettled 
purpose — the  desire  for  change  that  unfits  them  for  the  studies  of  childhood 
and  youth,  and  the  sterner  duties  of  more  matured  life.  It  is  one  of  the 
greatest  misfortunes  of  youth  that  they  are  allowed  to  enter  upon  many  pur- 
suits and  enterprises  which  they  never  complete.  They  begin  many  things 
which  they  never  finish.  One  enterprise  after  another  is  abandoned  before  it 
is  understood,  and  successive  performances  are  commenced  and  laid  aside,  as  if 
it  were  not  the  object  to  pursue  any  to  perfection.  How  much  of  life  is 
wasted  in  this  manner  ?  How  many  of  the  years  of  youth  are  thus  employed 
to  the  permanent  injury  of  the  possessors  of  such  destructive  liberty  ?  Defi- 
niteness  of  character  and  pursuit  is  as  much  required  in  the  education  of  the 
child,  as  the  studies  of  the  school.  Without  it  the  brightest  intellect  is  likely 
to  become  a  waste — the  best  informed  mind  a  thing  of  waywardness  and 
chance. 

Before  the  Bard  commenced  the  study  of  medicine,  and  during  the  period  he 
was  engaged  in  it,  he  was  in  the  constant  use  of  his  spare  moments  in  compo- 
sition. He  wrote  verses  with  great  freedom,  and  was  distinguished  among  his 
young  acquaintances  as  "  the  Poet."  He  was  at  one  time  the  principal  con- 
tributor to  a  popular  monthly  magazine  entitled  "  The  Casket,"  and  a  weekly 
paper  called  "  The  Saturday  Evening  Post,"  both  of  which  were  published  in 
the  City  of  Philadelphia.  Some  of  his  early  productions  were  published  over 
the  signature  of  "  THE  MILFORD  BARD,"  and  he  was  soon  distinguished  in 
the  use  of  the  sobriquet  much  more  than  he  was  in  that  of  his  real  name. 
For  many  years  the  title  of  "  THE  MILFORD  BARD  "  was  familiar  nearly  all 
over  the  country,  while  the  real  name  of  the  author  was  almost  unknown. 
His  writings  rendered  the  two  periodicals  to  which  they  were  principally  con- 
tributed very  popular,  and  in  their  circulation  the  Bard  himself  obtained  con- 
siderable celebrity  as  an  author.  He  wrote  upon  scientific  subjects,  as  well  as 
those  of  the  lighter  literature  of  the  day;  and  in  them  all  he  exhibited  a  highly 


MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  7 

creditable  familiarity  with  general  history,  the  lives,  characters  and  writings  of 
eminent  authors,  and  the  various  matters  of  science  upon  which  he  employed 
his  pen. 

At  this  period  of  his  life,  and  during  the  residence  of  the  Bard  in  Philadel- 
phia, the  poet,  Thomas  Moore,  visited  this  country.  The  literary  attainments 
and  position  of  the  young  Lofland  attracted  his  attention,  and  induced  an  ac- 
quaintance. They  became  intimate  friends,  and  the  Bard  has  often  alluded, 
with  interest  and  pleasure,  to  the  period  when  they  enjoyed  each  others'  so- 
ciety and  conversation.  Their  rambles  along  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  and 
admiration  of  the  scenery  on  both  sides  of  that  beautiful  river,  were  subjects 
of  delightful  reminiscence,  to  which  the  Bard  frequently  recurred  in  his  wan- 
derings, as  green  spots  amid  the  waste  of  his  memory. 

It  is  said  of  the  Bard,  and  indeed  the  fact  is  sometimes  referred  to  in  his 
writings,  that  during  the  years  of  his  early  manhood,  he  became  very  much 
attached  to  a  young  lady,  whom  he  addressed,  and  with  whom,  it  is  supposed, 
he  was  anxiously  desirous  of  uniting  his  fame  and  fortune.  But  for  some 
cause  or  other  his  suit  was  unsuccessful,  and  he  was  doomed  to  a  life  of  disap- 
pointment and  regret.  In  both  his  prose  and  poetic  productions,  he  has  in- 
vested this  circumstance  with  a  romantic  interest,  which  has  afforded  a  melan- 
choly pleasure,  especially  to  a  great  many  of  his  younger  readers.  In  the 
story  of  "  The  Betrayer,"  the  last  of  his  compositions,  and  which  he  did  not 
live  to  finish,  he  intimates  a  later  attachment,  the  features  of  which  might  have 
been  more  apparent  had  his  life  been  prolonged  until  the  stoiy  was  concluded. 
In  the  introduction  he  says,  "  Every  thing  in  the  story  is  described  just  as  it 
occurred,  even  to  the  words  spoken,  so  far  as  they  can  be  remembered.  The 
names  of  the  characters  are  fictitious,  and  the  names  alone,  for  all  else  is  real. 
Who  the  personages  are  that  figure  in  this  drama,  I  leave  to  my  readers  to  dis- 
cover; only  one  reason  induces  me  to  acknowledge  that  I  am  one,  that  reason 
must  be  locked  in  my  heart.  Reader!  dear  reader!  that  reason,  or  motive,  is 
a  strong  one,  and  it  is  bathed  in  the  tears  of  a  beautiful,  affectionate,  and  vir- 
tuous woman,  and  will  be  embalmed  and  buried  in  my  bosom,  unknown  to 
any  other  human  being,  until  the  trump  of  the  angel  Gabriel  shall  break  upon 
the  gloom  of  the  grave,  and  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  made  bare  before  the  tri- 
bunal above." 

There  is  reason  for  the  opinion  that  he  was  himself  one  of  the  principal  cha- 
racters of  the  story,  and  it  is  possible  that,  if  it  had  been  concluded,  many 
of  the  events  of  that  interesting  period  of  his  life,  and  of  the  affair  which  he 
characterized  as  one  of  affection  and  honor,  might  have  been  suggested. 

In  some  of  his  poetic  effusions  he  alludes  to  the  circumstance  of  his  early 
attachment,  in  a  manner  so  full  of  interest  and  feeling,  that  if  he  had  not  him- 
self stated  that  they  were  occasioned  by  it,  the  idea  would  be  suggested  to  the 
reader.  In  his  "Lines  "  to  a  lady  that  expressed  some  regard  for  him,  occur 
the  following: 
1 


MEMOIR    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"OH!  once  I  bowed  at  beauty's  shrine, 

Charmed  with  love's  silken  chain; 
But  never  can  this  heart. of  mine, 
Bow  down  in  bliss  again. 

"I  woke  the  harp  to  woman's  ear, 

With  all  a  minstrel's  art; 
And  as  she  leaned  my  notes  to  hear, 
Love's  arrow  pierced  my  heart. 


"The  memory  of  that  mournful  hour, 

We  for  the  last  time  met; 
To  blot  there  is  no  human  power, 
I  may  not  now  forget." 

In  the  poem  entitled  "The  Dream  of  other  Days,"  are  the  following  allu- 
sions to  the  subject. 


dream  of  other  days  how  bright? 
But  mournful  'tis  to  me 
When  on  my  soul  there  shines  the  light 
Of  love  and  memory. 


"I  see  her  in  my  manhood's  pride, 

In  beauty  brightly  blaze; 

Again  she  lingers  at  my  side, 

In  dreams  of  other  days. 

"She  leans  upon  my  bosom  now, 

Her  heart  is  pressed  to  mine; 
I  feel  it  beating  as  her  vow 

She  breathes  of  love  divine. 
I  see  her  face  so  mild,  so  meek, 

I  hear  her  soul-felt  sigh; 
A  smile  is  on  her  dimpled  cheek, 

A  tear  in  her  dark  eye. 

"That  vow  is  broken,  and  that  breast, 

To  guile  and  grief  is  given; 
My  heart  no  more  with  hope  is  blest, 

Alas !   I  fall  from  heaven. 
I  float  alone  down  life's  dark  stream, 

A  wreck  in  beauty's  gaze; 
Oh!   sweet,  but  sad  to  me  that  dream4 — 

That  dream  of  other  days." 

It  is  clearly  evident  that  in  his  writings,  and  intercourse  with  his  friends,  the 
Bard  frequently  alluded  to  his  disappointment  in  "  his  affair  of  the  affections," 


MEMOIR   OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  <J 

as  the  most  important  event  in  his  life  ;  the  one  that  effected  an  entire  change 
in  his  character,  habits  and  feelings,  and  caused  him  to  pursue  a  wayward 
course  through  all  the  succeeding  years  of  his  manhood. 

After  his  disappointment,  for  a  long  time  the  Bard  secluded  himself  from 
society  and  employed  himself  in  stories  and  composition.  His  writings  were 
of  a  miscellaneous  character,  chiefly  literary,  consisting  of  Poetry  and  Prose 
Compositions,  with  some  few  of  scientific  character.  So  closely  did  he  confine 
himself  at  one  period,  that  for  three  years  he  was  never  seen  upon  the  street, 
nor  had  for  a  moment  his  hat  upon  his  head.  The  only  exercise  he  took 
after  the  fatigue  of  writing  was  a  ramble  in  the  garden  among  the  flowers,  of 
which  he  was  very  fond. 

Throughout  the  years  of  his  maturity  and  amid  many  changes  and  vicissi- 
tudes, the  Bard  continued  to  give  evidences  of  an  affectionate  disposition, — of 
a  kind  and  gentle  nature.  He  was  very  fond  of  children, 'and  was  ready  at  any 
time  to  undergo  fatigue  and  trouble  to  oblige  them.  He  had  a  strong  attach- 
ment for  home  and  friends,  and  appeared  to  be  even  anxious  to  perform  little 
services  for  those  he  loved,  or  to  receive  favors  at  their  hands.  It  is  remark- 
able how  firm  and  unwavering  his  affection  for  his  mother  continued  through- 
out the  whole  of  his  life.  He  bore  her  image  ever  in  his  heart,  and  the  bare 
mention  of  her  name  at  any  time  would  send  a  thrill  of  indescribable  emotion 
throughout  his  system.  In  corresponding  with  her,  when  absent,  he  addressed 
her  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  and  poured  forth  the  feelings  of  his  heart  in 
the  impassioned  language  of  a  lover  to  the  lady  of  his  affections.  She  was  the 
star  of  his  idolatry,  and  held  a  power  over  him  that  could  never  be  exerted  by 
any  other  person.  Her  letters  to  him  were  characterized  by  great  tenderness, 
and  although  they  sometimes  reproved  him  with  great  severity,  there  was  no- 
thing like  offence  in  their  language. 

When  wearied  in  the  sedentary  pursuits  of  his  Study,  the  Bard  has  often 
sought  relief  in  the  more  active  employment  of  the  artist  and  the  mechanic. 
He  had  a  taste  for  sculpture,  and  made  several  very  creditable  attempts  to 
chissel  the  human  form  out  of  the  solid  marble.  An  effort  of  this  kind  was 
commenced  by  him  during  his  residence  in  Baltimore.  The  subject  was  a 
sleeping  child.  When  he  had  pretty  well  advanced  in  his  design,  by  an  un- 
lucky blow,  he  cracked  the  marble  block  out  of  which  he  was  cutting  the  figure. 
Discouraged  by  this  accident  he  gave  up  his  purpose,  and  left  the  little  subject 
of  his  interest  in  an  unfinished  condition.  It  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Pro- 
fessor Dunbar  of  Baltimore.  Another  attempt  of  the  kind  was  made  in  Wil- 
mington, Delaware,  which  he  did  not  live  to  finish.  The  design  was  the  infant 
Saviour,  and  was  intended  for  his  friend,  Mr,  Jeandell,  of  that  city,  who  still 
retains  it  as  a  memento  of  his  deceased  friend, 

It  is  pleasant  to  detail  the  many  excellent  and  interesting  traits  that  were 
prominent  in  the  character  of  the  Bard,  Would  that  the  pen  of  his  biographer 
could  be  confined  to  these!  Would  that  the  waywardness  and  weakness  of  his 


10  MEMOIR    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

intemperate  career  could  be  passed  over  in  silence!  But  this  cannot  be.  The 
knowledge  of  his  habits  is  too  widely  extended  among  the  communities  in 
which  he  lived,  to  be  omitted  here.  He  has  himself  written  and  said  so  much 
of  the  "  maddening  bowl,"  and  the  wreck  and  ruin  that  it  wrought  for  him, 
that  nearly  all  the  readers  of  his  writings  are  familiar  with  many  of  the  facts. 
He  was  aware  of  a  general  misapprehension  in  the  public  mind  upon  this  sub- 
ject, and  prepared  a  statement  by  which  he  intended  it  should  be  corrected.  As 
this  statement,  which  was  published  by  him,  in  a  periodical  of  considerable 
circulation,  some  years  before  his  death,  gives  a  more  correct  view  of  his  habit 
and  its  effects  than  any  thing  that  may  now  be  written,  it  may  be  as  well  to 
present  it  to  the  reader.  The  title  is  the  same  as  that  used  by  the  celebrated 
Coleridge  in  a  similar  detail. 


IP©  MT 

Cwfcsshms  0f  an 


BY    THE    MILFORD     BARD. 

JHE  confessions  which  I  am  about  to  make  would  never  meet  the 
public  eye,  were  it  not  for  that  philanthropy  which  actuates  my 
heart — that  desire  I  have  to  warn  others,  who,  like  myself,  are 
sliding  into  the  path  of  error,  without  being  aware  of  the  danger. 
I  have  another  object  in  view  in  making  these  mortifying  disclosures,  which  is 
to  correct  the  idea  of  many  persons,  that  I  have  at  periods  been  wilfully  dissi- 
pated, and  that  liquor  has  been  my  besetting  sin.  It  is  a  false  idea.  There  is 
no  man  on  the  face  of  the  earth  who  more  heartily  despises  drunkenness  than  I 
do.  Oh!  God;  could  my  pillow  and  my  bed  speak,  what  a  tale  would  they  tell 
of  the  agonizing  tears  I  have  shed,  and  the  heart-rending  sighs  I  have  breathed, 
on  account  of  the  follies  which  liquor,  superinduced  by  opium,  has  caused  me 
to  commit.  Oh!  how  wretched  I  have  been,  when  I  looked  back  on  the  past. 
But — "  To  err  is  human — to  forgive  divine." 
How  beautiful  are  the  lines  of  Pope — 

"  Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show 
That  mercy  show  to  me," 

The  poet  Burns  declares,  that — 

"  Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 

Wakes  countless  thousands  mourn." 


MEMOIR    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  11 

Shakspeare  is  equally  severe  on  human  nature,  when  he  says — 

"There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
That  feels  for  man." 

The  great  Erasmus  is  severer  than  the  Bard  of  Avon,  if  possible;  for  he  ex- 
claims in  Latin,  "  Homo  homini  lupus — man  is  a  wolf  to  man."  But  notwith- 
standing these  illustrious  authorities,  I  have  many  friends  who  have  hearts  to 
feel  and  forgive.  To  such  I  appeal  for  assistance,  on  the  eve  of  rending 
asunder  the  chains  of  my  greatest  enemy,  which  have  so  long  rattled  on  my 
limbs  of  liberty.  I  ask  them  not  for  their  gold,  but  for  encouragement  in  re- 
pudiating the  greatest  enemy  that  ever  darkened  and  degraded  my  intellect. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  recollect  the  case  of  the  talented  literary  writer, 
Henry  Neale.  He  made  many  ineffectual  attempts  to  escape  from  the  tyranny 
of  the  Turk,  from  the  shackles  which  the  demon  of  opium  had  imposed  upon 
him.  But  he  struggled  in  vain.  He  arose  at  night  from  his  bed,  and  threw  his 
bottle  of  laudanum  into  a  street  of  Boston.  Distressed  next  day  beyond  endur- 
ance, he  was  compelled  to  fly  to  the  druggist.  Crazed  by  the  influence  of 
laudanum  on  his  brain,  he  seized  a  pistol  in  a  fit  of  despair,  and  blew  out  his 
brains. 

Coleridge,  a  distinguished  writer  of  England,  wrote  a  work,  entitled,  "  The 
Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater."  He  describes  in  graphic  language,  the  horrible 
agonies  he  suffered,  and  the  many  schemes  he  projected  so  as  to  cheat  nature  or 
his  system  gradually  out  of  the  use  of  opium.  He  failed  in  many  of  his 
attempts,  though  at  last  by  assistance  succeeded. 

No  one,  except  the  druggist,  has  any  idea  of  the  great  number  of  persons  in 
this,  and  every  other  community,  who  are  in  the  constant  secret  habit  of  eating 
opium.  Their  "name  is  legion."  . 

Twenty  years  or  more  ago,  I  went  on  a  visit  to  the  scenes  of  my  Alma 
Mater,  and  in  returning  home  to  Delaware,  on  board  of  a  packet,  I  slept  upon 
the  deck  and  took  cold.  I  also  ate  an  enormous  mess  of  cucumbers  sliced  with 
onions  in  vinegar.  On  arriving  at  home,  I  was  attacked  between  midnight  and 
day  with  violent  cramp-colic.  After  suffering  two  hours  I  was  compelled  to 
go  down  and  arouse  my  mother,  who  gave  me  a  tea-spoonful  of  laudanum.  In 
fifteen  minutes  perceiving  no  effect,  I  requested  her  to  repeat  the  dose,  which 
she  did.  In  the  course  of  thirty  minutes  I  felt  some  relief  and  took  a  third  tea- 
spoonful,  which  relieved  me  entirely.  It  is  curious,  but  no  less  true,  that  a 
person  in  great  pain  will  take  opium  or  laudanum  with  impunity,  sufficient  to 
destroy  life  when  not  in  pain.  In  the  lock-jaw,  technically  called  tetanus,  half 
an  ounce  of  laudanum  may  be  given  without  any  apparent  effect,  though  half  an 
ounce  is  certain  death  to  a  man  under  common  circumstances. 

I  imagined  that  the  first  attack  of  cramp-colic  would  be  the  last,  but  on  the 
next  night  about  the  same  time,  I  was  attacked  again.  So  it  continued  on 
from  night  to  night,  until  I  was  compelled  to  remove  the  cause  from  my  stom- 
ach by  a  cathartic.  But  it  was  too  late.  I  had  taken  the  laudanum  until  I 
.could  not  sleep  without  it.  If  I  took  not  my  usual  dose  on  retiring,  the  irrita- 
tion in  my  system  became  so  great,  that  I  could  not  be  still  a  minute.  I  was 
then  compelled  to  get  up  and  take  my  dose,  which  had  gradually  increased  to 
half  an  ounce,  promising  myself  tkat  I  would  ere  long  quit  the  use  of  it.  Thus 
I  put  off  the  evil  day  till  too  late. 

From  habit  the  effects  became  extremely  delightful.  The  influence  of  opium 
on  the  brain,  when  the  stomach  is  clean,  is  very  different  from  that  of  ardent 


12  MEMOIR    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

spirits.  The  latter  flashes  on  the  brain  a  few  minutes,  inflaming  the  blood,  and 
then  dies;  while  opium  acts  for  hours  in  the  same  degree,  soothing  and  calming 
the  nerves,  and  rendering  the  mind  completely  happy. 

But  this  delightful  state  of  things  was  destined  not  to  last.  In  the  course  of 
some  months  my  stomach  began  to  be  disordered,  and  my  brain  sympathized.  I 
was  distracted  with  dyspepsia  and  horrified  with  nightmare,  and  the  most  terrific 
dreams,  until  I  was  afraid  to  close  my  eyes  in  sleep.  Alarmed  for  the  first  time 
I  attempted  to  throw  off  the  habit;  but  in  vain,  for  I  felt  as  if  a  hungry  tiger 
were  hugging  me  to  his  heart.  Urged  on  by  desperation  I  increased  the  dose, 
until  I  seemed  to  lose  the  use  of  my  limbs,  and  my  brain  became  frenzied. 
Imaginary  distresses  took  possession  of  my  mind,  and  I  fancied  that  my  friends 
had  forsaken  me,  and  were  continually  descanting  on  my  unfortunate  habit. 
In  this  condition,  not  knowing  scarcely  where  I  went  or  what  I  did,  depression 
of  spirit,  arising  from  the  state  of  the  nervous  system,  called  for  stimulus;  and 
I  drank  ardent  spirits  to  intoxication  for  the  first  time.  The  liquor  added  to 
laudanum,  inflamed  my  blood  and  1  cut  all  manner  of  shines.  I  went  to  the 
old  church  in  my  native  town;  1  ascended  the  pulpit;  opened  the  best  of  books; 
took  my  text,  and  became  eloquent,  it  was  said,  for  my  brain  was  in  a  highly 
excited  state.  Some  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  neighborhood,  hearing  my 
voice,  excited  by  curiosity,  came  to  the  church,  and  took  their  seats,  while  for 
an  hour  1  poured  forth  upon  them  the  thunders  of  the  violated  law.  My 
mother  prophecied  in  early  life,  when  I  was  held  up  as  a  pattern  of  sobriety 
and  morality,  that  I  would  one  day  be  a  minister  of  the  Gospel.  I  was  fulfill- 
ing her  prophecy  in  one  respect,  but  alas  sadly  in  another.  Many  such  vaga- 
ries I  committed;  such  as  ringing  a  silver  bell  through  the  street,  calling  all 
good  citizens  to  the  sale  of  all  old  maids  and  bachelors.  When  recovering  I 
remembered  nothing  that  passed  during  the  delirium  caused  by  liquor  and  lau- 
danum, until  my  friends  recalled  the  circumstance  to  my  dreaming  memory. 

At  different  times  a  thousand  different  fancies  possessed  my  mind,  in  the  same 
manner  that  the  Turks  are  affected  by  opium.  At  one  time  I  imagined  that  my 
arm  was  a  needle-making  machine,  and  that  I  could  see  the  needles  spinning 
out  at  my  elbow  in  quantities  of  several  hundred  a  minute.  At  another  time 
I  fancied  that  a  comical  looking  old  man,  with  one  eye  and  a  wooden  leg,  was 
continually  at  my  side  wherever  I  went.  When  I  sat  down  to  the  table  he  sat 
down  beside  me.  When  I  stretched  my  hand  to  a  cup  of  coffee  or  a  piece  of 
toast,  the  one-eyed  gentleman  stretched  forth  his.  When  I  arose  and  went  out, 
he  did  the  same.  At  bedtime,  when  I  raised  my  foot  to  get  into  bed,  he  raised 
his;  and  when  I  awoke  in  the  morning,  there  lay  the  old  gentleman  at  my  side, 
with  his  one  eye  wide  open.  I  was  not  frightened  at  the  spectre,  for  I  under- 
stood the  philosophy  of  the  matter.  The  effect  was  produced  by  an  illusion  of 
the  optic  nerve,  and  no  doubt  all  ghosts  are  produced  in  the  same  way  in  nerv- 
ous persons.  I  had  formerly  known  an  old  man  with  one  eye,  who  had  been 
a  pensioner  on  my  bounty.  The  impression  his  person  had  made  on  the  retina 
of  my  eye,  was  by  disease  of  the  nerves  revived,  and  hence  my  mind  contem- 
plated the  picture  on  the  back  of  the  eye,  for  every  thing  we  look  at  makes  a 
picture  there,  upside  down. 

Dr.  Benjamin  Rush,  if  my  memory  serves  me,  relates  the  case  of  a  young 
man  who  devotedly  loved,  and  was  pledged  in  marriage  to  a  beautiful  dashing 
damsel.  Before  the  nuptials  were  celebrated  and  their  fortunes  united,  she  sud- 
denly sickened  and  died.  He  became  nervous  from  excessive  grief,  and  took 
to  his  bed:  where  the  image  of  her  person  was  revived  upon  the  retina,  and  he 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  MILPORD  BARD. 

fancied  he  saw  her  sitting  in  a  chair,  near  his  bed,  leaning  her  head  upon  her 
hand,  and  gazing  at  him  with  a  sorrowful  look.  Having  studied  the  science  of 
optics,  he  knew  the  cause  of  the  apparition;  but  had  he  been  ignorant,  he 
would  have  sworn  that  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  To  prove  that  it  was  an  illusion, 
he  stretched  his  cane  and  passed  it  through  the  shadow  of  his  beloved.  When 
he  rubbed  his  eyes  she  disappeared;  because  the  optic  nerves  were  then  stimu- 
lated; but  he  could  soon  recall  her  by  thinking  of  her.  When  he  thought  of 
the  gold  locket  he  had  given  her,  she  would  arise;  go  to  the  bureau;  pick  it  up', 
look  at  him  sorrowfully,  and  burst  into  tears.  As  his  nerves  grew  stronger, 
she  came  less  and  less  frequently,  until  the  false  picture  was  entirely  obliterated 
from  the  eye,  and  she  came  no  more.  In  the  same  manner,  persons  with 
Mania  apotu  or  madness  from  rum,  see  horrible  objects  in  the  room. 

But  to  return.  My  friends  at  last  confined  me,  and  I  determined  to  make 
the  desperate  attempt  to  throw  off  the  habit  of  using  opium.  But  I  struggled 
in  vain,  for  the  chains  of  a  demon  were  around  me.  My  friends  used  every 
means  to  prevent  me  from  getting  the  opium,  but  intense  suffering  caused  me 
to  seek  every  opportunity  to  obtain  it.  My  agonies  were  beyond  endurance, 
and  one  night,  when  all  were  asleep,  I  softly  stole  from  the  house  and  repaired 
to  the  office  of  my  cousin,  the  Doctor.  I  knew  where  the  laudanum  bottle  was, 
and  with  delirious  joy  I  seized  it,  and  drank  four  or  five  ounces;  I  knew  it  was 
four  ounces  for  I  measured  it  in  a  graduated  glass.  I  then  took  enough  to 
destroy  eight  or  ten  men.  Oh!  how  different  were  my  feelings  when  I  re- 
turned home !  I  had  in  a  few  minutes  passed  from  despair  to  perfect  bliss.  The 
next  day  I  obtained  opium,  by  stratagem,  and  continued  the  habit. 

I  recovered  with  a  clean  stomach,  and  continued  a  year  to  take  the  opium, 
until  it  again  threw  me  into  the  same  condition,  and  again  I  was  induced  to 
take  ardent  spirits.  Every  year  this  was  repeated,  and  my  friends  thought  I 
drank  periodically. 

At  one  time  I  was  building  an  organ  of  five  stops,  and  one  night  frenzied 
with  opium  and  liquor,  1  imagined  that  I  was  in  a  bar-room,  and  that  the  front 
stop  or  row  of  open  diapason  pipes  were  the  slats  which  enclosed  the  bar.  I 
commenced  tearing  away  the  pipes  to  get  in  the  bar,  and  it  was  some  time 
before  I  discovered  my  mistake.  I  then  repaired  to  my  room,  where  I  had 
many  bottles  of  acids,  &c.,  for  chemical  experiments,  and  seized  a  bottle  con- 
taining nitric  acid  or  aqua-fortis,  drinking  at  the  same  time  about  half  a  gill.  I 
perceived  the  mistake,  and  drank  five  ounces  of  oil,  which  saved  me.  My 
throat  was  so  swollen  that  I  could  scarcely  breathe. 

Under  the  influence  of  liquor,  superinduced  by  the  use  of  opium,  I  once 
went  out  with  some  young  men  on  the  Delaware  Bay  to  fish  for  drums. 
Towards  sun-down  the  young  men  pulled  for  the  shore,  while  I  sat  in  the  stern 
steering.  When  the  boat  struck  the  beach,  all  hands  being  much  intoxicated, 
they  seized  the  oars  and  leaped  on  shore;  the  tide  which  was  strongly  setting 
out  to  sea,  carried  rne  off  in  the  boat  rapidly,  without  a  paddle  or  an  oar,  and 
without  anything  to  bail  the  boat,  which  was  rapidly  filling  with  water.  When 
a  mile  at  sea,  being  an  expert  swimmer,  I  leaped  into  the  boiling  flood,  and  struck 
with  "lusty  sinews"  for  the  shore.  But  the  tide  was  too  strong,  and  1  returned 
to  the  boat,  which  was  half  full  of  water.  Night  was  fast  wrapping  the  foam- 
ing waves  of  the  Bay  in  gloom,  when  some  fishermen  happened  to  discover  me; 
launched  a  boat  and  came  to  my  assistance.  Long  before  we  reached  the  shore 
my  boat  sunk.  I  had  a  spell  of  sickness;  recovered  still  in  the  use  of  opium, 
and  continued  eighteen  months  before  my  stomach  and  brain  were  disordered 


14  MEMOIR    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

sufficiently  to  fall  into  the  use  of  ardent  spirits.  So  long  as  opium  did  not  de- 
throne reason,  the  monarch  of  the  mind,  so  long  I  avoided  ardent  spirits;  but 
so  soon  as  the  Turkish  tyrant  caused  aberration  in  any  degree,  I  flew  to  liquor 
and  was  soon  on  top  of  the  city.  Under  the  influence  of  liquor  and  laudanum, 
I  have  often  been  in  great  danger.  I  have  escaped  imminent  death  in  a  hundred 
different  ways — from  the  pistol,  from  poison  by  mistake,  from  the  waves,  from 
the  snow-storm,  when  returning  from  a  frolic  in  the  country,  when  I  was  found 
by  a  Methodist  preacher;  from  the  dagger  of  the  assassin,  &c. 

A  gentleman  in  Baltimore  desired  me,  in  1838,  to  go  on  to  that  city  to  write 
out  a  book  for  him,  he  having  conceived  a  new  system  of  agriculture.  The 
hotel,  at  which  I  boarded,  took  fire  in  the  night  from  a  steam-engine  in  the 
rear;  my  trunk  was  plundered  of  money  and  clothing,  and  I  found  myself  in 
the  streets  of  a  large  city  in  a  state  of  destitution  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 
Distress  of  mind  caused  me  to  use  opium  freely;  before  it  disordered  my  stom- 
ach and  brain  sufficiently  to  cause  me  to  drink,  I  was  making  by  my  pen  a 
liberal  salary.  The  usual  result  of  using  opium  finally  took  place,  and  before 
I  was  aware  of  it,  I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  at  the  gate  of  the  Maryland 
Hospital,  and  two  stout  and  strong  men  ready  to  take  me  to  my  room.  Opium 
and  liquor  were  both  denied  me,  except  a  thimble-full  per  day,  when  I  had  been 
taking  eight  ounces  of  laudanum  (half  a  pint,)  or  half  an  ounce  of  opium  in 
the  same  time.  Oh !  the  anguish  that  I  suffered  during  three  long  weeks,  not 
sleeping  a  moment  in  thirteen  days  and  nights,  for  I  could  not  sit  still,  stand 
still,  or  lie  still  one  minute.  I  wras  almost  blind  from  loss  of  sleep;  my  limbs 
jerked  violently;  cramps  seized  me  in  every  limb;  my  nerves  crawled  like 
worms,  and  I  was  compelled  to  walk,  walk,  walk,  until  nature  was  exhausted, 
and  I  could  scarcely  drag  one  foot  after  the  other. 

One  day,  in  perfect  despair,  I  went  down  to  dinner.  The  Doctor  and  the 
patients  were  seated  at  the  table.  I  could  not  eat.  I  arose,  and  as  I  went  up 
stairs  I  met  the  gate-keeper  going  down  to  see  the  Doctor.  Good!  I  exclaimed 
to  myself,  the  track  is  clear!  Though  extremely  nervous,  I  ran  into  the  yard; 
seized  a  piece  of  plank;  placed  it  against  the  wall,  and  with  a  desperate  effort  I 
ascended  and  went  over  the  wall;  but  I  had  smashed  the  gold  lever  watch  in 
my  vest  fob;  broke  the  heavy  gold  guard  I  wore,  and  dropped  a  gold  key  and 
seal  on  the  inside  of  the  wall.  But  I  heeded  it  not.  I  ran  to  Baltimore  street; 
leaped  into  a  carriage,  and  told  the  driver  to  drive  to  the  first  drug  store  as  if 
the  devil  were  after  him,  assuring  him  that  money  was  no  object.  Sure 
enough,  I  went  up  Baltimore  street  like  the  fluid  along  the  electro-magnetic 
telegraph.  I  leaped  out  and  told  the  druggist,  who  knew  me  and  my  habits,  as 
all  the  principal  citizens  did — for  I  never  hide  my  faults — I  told  him  for  God's 
sake  to  give  me  four  ounces  of  laudanum  as  soon  as  possible.  I  swallowed  it, 
and  in  half  an  hour  I  swallowed  four  ounces  more.  In  one  hour  I  was  at  ease 
and  as  happy  a  man  as  ever  existed.  But  alas !  I  was  again  as  deep  as  ever  in 
the  habit  of  using  opium.  Afraid  to  go  home,  lest  my  friends  should  send  me 
back  to  the  Hospital,  I  bought  a  shirt  to  put  on  the  next  morning,  Sunday,  and 
staid  at  a  hotel,  with  the  intention  of  paying  a  visit  next  day  to  a  lady,  who, 
some  time  before,  had  sent  me  her  card,  and  of  playing  with  her  on  the  piano 
and  accordeon. 

Accordingly,  next  day  I  started  up  the  street  in  high  spirits  to  see  her,  for 
she  was  a  celebrated  beauty;  but  who  should  I  meet  but  one  of  my  friends, 
who  had  been  most  active  in  sending  me  to  the  Hospital.  "Doctor,"  said  he, 


MEMOIR    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  15 

with  surprise,  "how  did  you  get,  out  of  the  Hospital?"  Why,  sir,  said  I,  I 
jumped  the  wall. 

§  Tl\e  next  day  I  went  home,  and  during  eleven  months  and  three  weeks  I 
never  touched  ardent  spirits;  but  during  that  time  opium  was  bringing  round 
the  old  results.  I  stepped  in  one  day  at  Beltzhoover's  hotel,  and  a  southern 
gentleman  hearing  me  called  Bard,  an  appellation  I  was  universally  called  by  in 
Baltimore,  he  made  himself  known,  and  invited  me  to  take  some  brandy.  We 
drank  several  times  of  fourth  proof,  until  the  gentleman  and  myself  were  both 
glorious  in  the  arms  of  Sir  Richard  Rum.  How  I  got  to  Barnum's  City  Hotel 
I  never  could  divine;  but  I  got  there  without  having  my  head  broken  on  the 
pave  by  Sir  Richard.  Mr.  Barnum,  seeing  me  asleep  on  a  settee  that  stood  on 
the  marble  passage,  took  my  watch  off  my  neck  and  put  it  away,  for  fear  I 
should  be  robbed  when  I  should  go  out  on  the  street.  When  I  went  out  I  was 
met  by  a  cousin,  an  officer  in  one  of  the  banks,  who  hailed  me — 

"Come,  cousin  John,  will  you  take  a  rider" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "if  you'll  let  Sir  Richard  Rum  and  the  Grand  Turk  go 
with  me." 

"Very  well,"  returned  he,  smiling,  "get  into  the  cab." 

I  soon  fell  asleep  upon  his  bosom,  and  when  I  awoke  I  was  at  the  Hospital 
gate.  Again  I  was  cut  off  from  opium ;  again  I  suffered  horrors  unutterable. 
I  begged,  I  plead  at  the  Doctor  to  give  me  laudanum  enough  to  calm  my  system, 
but  all  in  vain.  I  could  not  sleep,  and  passed  the  night  in  talking  through  the 
flue  .on  literary  subjects,  to  a  person  who  occupied  a  room  just  above  mine. 
Booth,  the  celebrated  tragedian,  was  confined  in  the  next  room.  The  next  day, 
worn  out  with  misery,  I  resolved  to  have  opium  at  all  hazards.  I  bribed  the 
coachman  to  bring  it,  and  while  he  was  gone,  I  slipped  the  Doctor's  key,  stole 
into  his  office,  while  he  was  standing  on  the  long  passage,  filled  my  pint  cup 
with  brandy  ten  years  old,  and  escaped  unseen.  In  a  little  while  I  was  immor- 
tally glorious.  I  seized  a  sheet,  wrapped  it  around  me,  and  flew  up  stairs. 
The  ladies  were  at  tea — no  one  was  in  the  upper  parlor.  One  of  Pickering's 
grand  pianos  stood  open  before  me.  I  sat  down,  and  commenced  playing  in 
tones  of  thunder.  The  Doctor  hearing  the  thundering  bass  in  the  Battle  of 
Prague,  came  up,  took  me  by  the  pulse  and  said,  "  Bard,  you  have  been  taking 
stimulus,  where  did  you  get  it?"  "Oh!  Doctor,"  said  I,  "you  cannot  expect 
me  to  turn  traitor  against  Sir  Richard."  Not  understanding  my  allusion,  he 
thought  me  delirious,  and  took  me  down  to  my  room.  The  coachman  brought 
me  an  ounce  of  opium;  I  took  about  one-quarter,  slept  soundly,  and  was  well 
in  a  day  or  two,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Doctor,  and  was  taken  home  by  my 
friends,  under  the  supposition  that  I  was  free  from  opium.  I  longed  to  be  so, 
but  the  agonies  of  the  rack  were  too  great  for  my  resolution,  and  in  moments 
of  suffering  I  unfortunately  managed  to  obtain  the  drug,  which  in  twenty  years 
has  cost  me  between  two  and  three  thousand  dollars. 

I  now  took  opium,  or  rather  laudanum,  fifteen  months  before  it  superinduced 
drinking;  but  it  finally  resulted  in  the  usual  way.  I  became  very  delirious; 
arose  from  my  bed  at  night;  took  two  pair  of  pistols  from  my  trunk;  went 
wandering  about  the  house,  and  got  lost.  I  found  a  dress  and  bonnet  belonging 
to  a  lady  in  the  house;  put  them  on;  belted  my  pistols  around  me,  and  wan- 
dered into  a  room  where  two  Spanish  ladies  were  asleep,  supposing  the  room 
to  be  mine.  Opium  had  put  the  fancy  into  my  head  that  I  had  been  challenged 
to  a  duel,  and  having  had  some  experience  in  that  matter,  I,  as  a  true  Blue 
Hen's  chicken,  was  preparing  for  the  occasion.  Seeing  the  rosy  cheeks  of  the 

2 


16  MEMOIR    OP  THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

ladies,  I  began  to  suspect  that  I  had  got  into  the  wrong  pew.  While  contem- 
plating slumbering  beauty,  the  light  awakened  them,  and  seeing  as  they  thought 
a  woman  with  a  belt  full  of  pistols,  they  uttered  such  a  wild  scream  as  rung 
through  the  building,  and  called  forth  all  hands  and  the  cook  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  A  universal  laugh  at  the  figure  I  cut  was  the  consequence. 

My  limits  will  permit  me  to  mention  but  a  few  of  the  miseries  I  have 
endured,  and  many  ludicrous  scenes,  which  would  excite  the  laugh  at  my  ex- 
pense, are  omitted.  Thank  God,  my  friend,  Dr.  Askew,  of  Wilmington,  has 
freed  me  from  my  greatest  enemy,  opium,  and  by  good  nursing  I  am  recovering 
my  health,  notwithstanding  my  death  has  been  reported  over  the  city.  Mortuus 
esi.  But  a  dead  man  does  not  eat  a  pound  of  broiled  beef-steak  and  toast 
drowned  in  butter,  with  a  quart  of  coffee  for  his  breakfast.  Doctor  Askew  has 
taken  great  interest  in  my  welfare,  and  struck  at  the  root  of  the  matter.  He 
warned  the  druggists  not  to  sell  opium  to  me.  When  suffering  I  tried  to  obtain 
it,  but  as  they  say  in  Baltimore,  I  couldn't  come  it.  Dr.  Askew  is  the  first  phy- 
sician that  ever  was  too  cunning  for  me,  and  I  shall  love  him  for  it  as  long  as 
my  heart  continues  to  beat.  The  hundred  and  fifty  ladies  and  gentlemen  who 
visited  me,  principally  strangers,  were  watched  lest  they  should  smuggle  me 
opium.  The  Doctor,  in  getting  ahead  of  me,  certainly  belongs  to  the  fast  line. 
Had  he  bestowed  upon  me  a  fortune  in  gold,  and  suffered  me  still  to  remain  in 
the  habit  of  using  opium,  he  would  not  have  conferred  upon  me  half  the  blessing 
he  has  now  done.  In  being  freed  from  the  use  of  the  drug,  I  have  suffered  a 
hundred  deaths,  though  the  Doctor  mitigated  my  pangs  as  much  as  possible, 
by  the  administration  of  morphine  in  small  doses;  by  sympathizing  with  me  in 
my  agonies,  and  by  encouraging  me  to  endure  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  being 
free  from  that  curse  which  has  obnubilated  my  intellect;  for  I  know  not  what 
it  might  have  been,  had  I  never  fallen  into  the  habits  of  using  opium  and  liquor. 
I  am  no  longer  stupid— my  mind  is  one  hundred  per  cent,  brighter,  and  it  will 
still  increase  a  thousand  per  cent,  when,  in  the  course  of  some  weeks,  I  am 
restored  to  health. 

To  Mr.  Jeandell,  one  of  the  proprietors  of  the  Blue  Hen's  Chicken,  who 
arrested  me  in  my  wild  career,  as  well  as  to  Dr.  Askew,  who  has  treated  me 
like  a  brother,  and  put  himself  to  much  trouble  to  prevent  the  possibility  of 
my  obtaining  opium,  I  owe  an  eternal  debt  of  gratitude.  The  Doctor  has  per- 
formed the  labors  of  Alcides,  commonly  called  Hercules.  He  has  cleansed  the 
Augsean  Stables;  he  has  slain  the  Nemaean  Lion;  he  has  crushed  the  Lernoean 
Serpent,  and  strangled  the  mighty  Antoeus  of  habit.  He  has  rent  asunder  the 
chains  beneath  which  I  groaned,  and  to  gratify  his  humane  heart,  I  have  so- 
lemnly pledged  myself  that  when  I  go  forth  into  the  world  thoroughly  restored 
to  health,  I  will  never  touch  opium  again;  and  in  shunning  that  drug,  I  shall 
for  ever  be  free  from  the  use  of  liquor,  I  wish  my  friends  to  stick  a  pin  here, 
and  let  me  warn  others  against  the  habit  of  using  opium ,  for  it  is  a  demon  far 
more  terrific  than  Sir  Richard  Rum.  Beware  of  it,  for  it  will  betray  you  into 
the  arms  of  Sir  Richard.  My  friends,  Professors  Monkur  and  Annan,  of  Bal- 
timore, assured  me  that  so  long  as  I  used  opium,  so  long  would  I  be  liable  to 
fall  into  the  use  of  ardent  spirits  periodically. 


In  the  above  graphic  detail  of  melancholy  events,  induced  by  the  use  of 
Jiquor  and  opium,  the  reader  has  a  brief  epitome  of  the  Bard's  life  for  twenty 


MEMOIR   OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  17 

years  and  more.  During  that  time  he  made  frequent  efforts  to  break  off  from 
his  unfortunate  habits.  He  submitted  to  many  inconveniences  and  privations, 
such  as  voluntary  imprisonment;  confinement  in  the  houses  of  his  friends;  re- 
moval from  opportunities  of  association  in  society  to  solitary  places,  &c.  In 
a  number  of  instances,  after  long  abstinence,  he  was  confident  that  the  moral 
force  had  triumphed,  and  that  he  was  freed  from  the  influence  of  the  tempter. 
He  has  exulted  in  the  victory,  and  celebrated  the  happy  event,  both  in  prose 
and  poetic  composition.  His  struggles  to  be  released  from  the  iron  fetters  of 
the  demon  of  his  besetments,  are  so  many  proofs  of  the  high  estimate  he 
placed  upon  virtuous  character,  and  his  great  anxiety  to  attain  eminence  in  its 
possession.  None  but  those  who  have  experienced  the  burning  desire  for  the 
drug  that  produced  his  delirium,  can  estimate  or  appreciate  the  wretchedness  of 
his  situation  when  it  was  denied  him,  and  when  he  voluntarily  placed  himself 
beyond  its  reach.  In  the  nervous  excitement  under  which  his  system  was  tor- 
tured, death  would  have  afforded  him  relief,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  he 
frequently  endured  a  physical  agony  which  it  was  impossible  even  for  himself 
to  describe. 

The  unfortunate  habits  of  the  Bard  disqualified  him  for  the  pursuit  of  any 
regular  business.  He  made  the  attempt  several  times  to  keep  himself  em- 
ployed, so  that  he  might  resist  the  attack  of  his  enemy,  but  the  result,  in  every 
case,  proved  that  he  was  not  sufficient  for  the  task.  The  indefinite  process  by 
which  his  early  education  was  pursued,  and  the  indecision  that  was  allowed  to 
mark  the  advance  of  his  maturity,  disqualified  him  for  the  exercise  of  that 
moral  control,  without  which  a  man  becomes  the  sport  of  passion — the  play- 
thing of  a  wild  and  wayward  chance-fortune.  Without  the  power  of  con- 
trolling circumstances,  in  his  weakness,  circumstances  controlled  him,  and  he 
went  on  through  life  like  a  man  that  was  blindfolded,  and  yet  compelled  to 
work  his  way  amid  the  crowds  of  a  busy  city.  His  history  shows  how  one 
false  step  may  lead  the  subject  of  it  [astray,  and  cause  him  to  wind  his  way 
through  a  labyrinth  of  darkness  and  difficulty,  with  but  little  prospect  of  re- 
lease from  the  bewildering  mazes  of  his  gloomy  and  uncertain  pathway. 

For  a  number  of  years  while  the  Bard  resided  in  Baltimore,  and  afterwards 
in  Wilmington,  he  employed  himself  in  writing  for  the  press  and  the  public. 
His  productions  for  the  press  consisted  in  productions  almost  exclusively  of  a 
literary  character.  His  writings  for  the  public  were  miscellaneous  and  greatly 
varied.  They  consisted  chiefly  in  scientific  and  popular  lectures,  orations  and 
addresses  of  different  kinds;  and  poetry  upon  an  indefinite  variety  of  subjects 
and  occasions.  For  some  of  his  productions  he  was  tolerably  well  remu- 
nerated; for  others  he  was  but  poorly  paid.  He  managed,  however,  in  general 
to  secure  a  livelihood.  His  correspondence  in  his  pursuit  of  preparing  ora- 
tions and  addresses,  and  writing  poetry  for  persons  less  gifted  than  himself,  is 
of  a  highly  interesting  character.  A  few  extracts  will  serve  as  well  to  amuse 
the  reader,  as  to  show  the  nature  of  the  correspondence,  the  kind  of  service  he 


18  MEMOIR    OF    THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

was  called  upon  to  render,  and  the  manner  in  which  he  was  paid  for  his 
services.  The  letters  are  quoted  verbatim.  The  following  letter  is  written  in  a 
very  fair  hand,  and  apparently  by  one  somewhat  advanced  in  age. 


"MILLFORD  BARD  ESQ 

"Dear  Sir — I  take  the  Liberty  to  call  on  you  as  you  promised  me  to  Com- 
pose me  a  pease  and  if  you  will  I  will  feale  mySelf  Very  much  indebted  to  you 
and  will  never  forget  you  for  it. 

"  I  am  youf  Obt  S.  R E 

"  P  S.  and  if  you  requier  a  compensation  for  it  you  shall  have  it. 
"  I  am  about  to  qoart  a  yonng  Lady  who  1  love  sincearly." 

The  following  is  in  a  good  hand,  and  seems  to  have  been  written  by  a  much 
younger  correspondent. 

" March  28,  1848 

"  To  THE  MILFORD  BARD 

"Dear  Sir — My  object  in  addressing  you  at  this  time  is  to  request  you  to 
write  for  me  a  piece  of  Poetry  consisting  of  about  twenty  lines,  or  more  if  neces- 
sary 1  want  it  for  a  Ladies  Album.  As  to  the  title  of  the  article  I  want,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  know  what  to  term  it 

"You  might  speak  of  my  first  sight  of  her  which  was  about  two  years  ago. 
She  resides  in  the  Country,  near  the  City.  I  was  out  there  to  Church  on  Sabbath 
at  the  time  spoken  of  above,  and  as  I  came  out  the  Church  I  saw  her  for  the  first 
time.  Speak  of  the  impreasion  that  sight  made  upon  me,  which  has  never 
been  eradicated  to  day.  As  her  residence  is  on  a  high  hill  which  overlooks  the 
City  of  Monuments  it  would  well  to  speak  of  the  high  and  elevated  position 
she  occupies  in  the  world  and  in  my  affections. 

"Also  may  the  high  position  she  occupies,  may  it  ever  image  to  her  mind 
the  great  height  which  it  is  her  priviledge  to  attain  to  in  Christian  perfection, 
and  the  high  position  which  it  is  my  desire  she  may  attain  to  in  the  kingdom 
of  glory  above 

"Not  knowing  positively  your  location  I  have  not  sent  the  money  for  fear  it 
will  not  reach  you  in  Safety.  But  If  you  write  to  me  immediately  on  the 
receipt  of  this  and  let  me  know  the  price  I  will  remit  the  amount  prior  to  the 
receipt  of  the  article. 

"  If  it  is  convenient  I  should  like  to  have  the  article  by  friday  of  this  week. 
I  will  want  several  other  pieces  written  soon. 

"Your  old  friend,  S ".; 

" January  1  1848 

"To  MILFORD  BARD 

"  Enclosed  I  send  you  $3  Presuming  that  it  is  all  you  would  charge  me  for 
the  lines  I  want  you  to  compose  and  forward  by  mail,  this  is  a  thick  settled 
Country  the  West  part  of  N.  C — and  if  I  can  throw  any  thing  in  the  way  of 
the  Md  Bard  (as  I  am  now  doing)  I  will  do  so.  But  to  the  point.  I  want  a 
poetic  addressed  to  a  young  lady  whose  name  is  Isabella,  my  Friend  saw 

her  (or  you  may  say  Me  at  present)  at  Mount  H a  methodist  Chapel  in 

the  Country.     I  want  it  in  plain  vers"  or  poetry,  the  Girl  is  Eighteen,  Black 


MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  19 

Eyes,  Beautiful  Auburn  hair  and  the  most  beautiful  Natural  Curls  you  ever 
have  seen,  my  Friend  Loved  her  and  the  Feeling  was  doubley  reciprocate  and 
an  almost  weekly  intercourse  was  kept  up  until  lately,  in  your  lines  to  Isabel 
you  may  take  the  best  notice  of  this  you  think  best,  my  F  proposes  to  com- 
mence a  Fresh  with  the  Spring,  or  it  will  somewhat  depend  on  the  Efeact  pro- 
duced by  your  Composition,  (her  Father  is  dead)  She  has  lately  had  a  suitor 

whose  name  I  send  you  to  use  in  the  poetry  if  you  think  proper — it  is 

My  Friend  was  Slandered  during  his  visits  to  I and  he  thinks  that  was  the 

cause  of  her  very  sudden  change  &c  She  was  once  playful  and  kind.  Now 
she  is  disposed  otherwise,  and  we  wish  to  draw  her  out  fully  through  our 
Friend  M — B —  Please  attend  immediately  and  send  to 

' '  Your  Friend ,  S 

"P  S  18  years  old — lives  in  the  Country  Black  Eyes — Auburn  hair,  Curls 

Beautifully.     Father  dead — last  rival discarded.     Met  at  Mount  H 

last  4th  July  Love  on  First  sight — good  feeling  until  lately — we  want  to  know 
the  Cause — basely  slandered  a  coldness  Folowed — The  slander  was  a  charge  of 
dealing  too  Free  with  the  Critter  or  Intemperance.  Tis  not  true  The  initials 

of  my  friend  are  T  J My  Friend  T  J is  a  clever  Fellow  and  I 

want  you  to  do  him  all  the  Justice  you  can  &  oblige  S " 

" November  6  1848 

"Da  JOHN  LOFLAND 

"  Sir — It  is  my  intention  to  present  a  young  lady  who  is  to  be  my  compa- 
nion through  life  with  my  Daguereotype  likeness  in  a  golden  locket — As  it  is 
my  wish  to  present  it  in  Poetry  and  as  I  am  not  competent  of  writing  such  a 
piece  I  therefore  write  wishing  you  to  write  me  a  piece  suitable  for  the  presen- 
tation of  such  a  present.  As  for  describing  her  minutely  it  is  out  of  my 

power,     tier  age  is years  beautiful  form — fair  skin  Cold  black  hair  and 

eyes,  rosy  cheeks,  beautiful  lips  and  teeth  and  ever  wearing  a  cheerful  and 
lively  countenance  In  fact  she  is  possessed  of  Nature's  finest  stamp  of  beauty, 
and  besides  all  this  her  intellectual  and  mental  powers  are  very  great. 

"  It  is  not  altogether  upon  her  beauty  that  I  wish  you  to  write,  but  the  manner 
in  which  she  must  accept  of  it — that  it  is  the  picture  of  her  devoted  lover  and 
intended  companion,  and  while  she  keeps  it  in  possession,  she  must  reject  all 
others  that  offer  to  her  their  hands.  Enclosed  you  will  find  a  One  dollar  bill, 
which  I  suppose  is  the  amount  you  charge 

"  Respectfully  yours  &c  A  H  W M.  D. 

"PS.  Send  it  as  soon  as  you  can  write  it.  Direct  it  to  your  old  friend  A 
II  W I  shall  send  for  a  great  many  more  in  a  few  weeks." 

" May  3d,  1849. 

"  MILFORD  BARD,  ESQ. 

"  Jtfy  Dear  Sir — My  object  in  addressing  you  this  letter  is  I  want  to  know 
what  you  will  charge  for  writing  an  oration  suitable  for  a  Fourth  of  July  ora- 
tion 20  minutes  long  in  the  same  style  as  the  "  Course  of  Time  "  is  written  in. 
I  admire  that  piece  as  among  the  ablest  ever  wrote  I  want  you  to  let  me  know 
what  you  will  charge  and  I  think  there  is  no  doubt  we  will  strike  a  bargain. 
"  Yours  very  respectfully,  F S " 


20  MEMOIR   OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

" May  31  1847 

"  Jfy  Dear  Sir — Yours  of  the  17th  came  to  hand  I  want  you  without  further 
delay  to  write  me  an  oration  and  when  you  receive  my  next  it  will  contain  $10 
I  am  about  out  of  money  at  present  I  must  have  the  oration.  I  would  just  say 
to  you  that  I  have  a  loud  and  distinct  voice.  My  gestures  are  perfectly  natural 
and  easy,  and  not  acquired.  Please  give  me  a  "  Touch  of  the  sublime  "  Speak 
of  our  army  in  Mexico  in  glowing  colors  and  brilliant  language.  I  have  no 
doubt  it  will  be  published. 

"Yours  truly  F " 

" June  15  1847 

"Dear  Sir — I  begin  to  feel  very  apprehensive  of  a  very  serious  disappointment 
as  I  have  not  heard  any  thing  from  you  lately  about  my  4th  of  July  oration. 
I  hope  I  shall  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  Yours  F 

" June  27  1847 

"  DR.  LOFLAND 

"  Sir — I  have  been  anxiously  waiting  to  hear  from  you  in  relation  to  my 
fourth  of  July  oration.  The  time  is  drawing  near  and  you  have  not  sent  it.  1 
shall  not  even  now  have  time  to  study  it  properly;  and  if  I  do  not  get  it  soon  I 
shall  be  disgraced.  Please  write  the  oration  and  send  it  at  once  as  it  is  a  source 
of  great  trouble  and  uneasiness  to  me.  F ." 

Whether  or  not  the  uneasy  applicant  received  his  oration,  there  is  now  no 
opportunity  of  ascertaining.  The  applicant  himself,  if  he  is  living,  is  probably 
the  only  one  that  can  give  the  information.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  the  Bard 
was  at  the  time  in  one  of  his  opium  aberrations  and  that  the  oration  was  not 
forthcoming.  He  was  always,  when  himself*  prompt  in  his  reply  to  corres- 
pondents, and  wrote  the  papers  for  which  application  was  made,  whether  he 
was  paid  for  the  labor  or  not. 

The  correspondence  from  which  the  above  letters  are  selected,  is  extensive, 
and  contains  a  great  variety  of  applications  upon  almost  every  department  of  his 
unique  profession.  Some  of  the  letters  are  of  a  very  amusing  character.  A 
number  of  applications  from  prospective  graduates  in  institutions,  both  collegi- 
ate and  medical,  shows  how  considerably  the  Bard  has  contributed  to  the  in- 
'  terest  of  such  occasions,  and  to  the  popularity  of  the  efforts  of  the  young 
aspirants.  The  limit  allowed  to  this  sketch,  will  not  admit  of  a  more  extensive 
publication  of  the  correspondence.  The  names  of  the  writers  are  generally 
signed  to  their  letters,  and  if  published  with  the  correspondence,  a  considerable 
stir  might  be  made  among  the  literary  and  professional  aspirants  of  the  day.  In 
one  instance  an  order  was  given  for  half  a  dozen  poetical  articles  to  be  published 
in  as  many  periodicals;  another  correspondent  contracts  for  an  article  per  month 
to  be  contributed  by  him  to  a  monthly  magazine. 

The  Bard's  residence  in  Baltimore  was  rendered  extremely  interesting  by  the 
sympathy  that  prevailed  in  his  behalf,  especially  among  the  ladies.  Whenever 


MEMOIR   OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  21 

he  was  prostrated  by  sickness,  superinduced  by  his  use  of  opium,  he  received 
every  token  of  kindness,  in  the  way  of  presents  of  sweetmeats,  and  the  nume- 
rous delicacies  of  the  different  seasons.  For  these-  evidences  of  regard  he  was 
always  grateful,  and  some  times  noticed  them  in  his  contributions  to  the  press. 
The  former  volume  of  his  Poetical  and  Prose  Writings,  published  by  him,  was 
dedicated  to  the  "Ladies  of  Baltimore,"  who  showed  their  kindness  to  him 
"in  sickness  and  under  other  circumstances  of  affliction." 

The  publisher  of  this  and  also  of  a  former  volume  of  the  writings  of  the  Bard, 
Mr.  John  Murphy,  was  to  him,  a  valuable  friend  and  adviser.  He  assisted  him 
in  various  ways,  and  undertook  the  responsibility  of  publishing  his  works  in 
order  to  aid  him  in  securing  the  means  of  support.  The  previous  volume  was 
issued  entirely  at  the  risk  of  Mr.  Murphy,  and  without  the  prospect  of  pecuni- 
ary advantage.  When  the  book  was  published,  he  used  every  exertion  to 
secure  for  it  an  extensive  circulation,  with  which  the  Bard  was  highly  gratified, 
and  frequently  acknowledged  his  friendship,  and  the  great  service  he  had  done 
him.  If  any  profit  of  consequence  is  realized  from  the  effort  it  must  be  from 
the  present  volume. 

It  was  at  the  request  of  the  Bard  that  the  Editor  of  this,  collected  and  ar- 
ranged the  matter  for  the  volume  previously  published  by  Mr.  Murphy.  The 
entire  labor  of  preparing  that  volume  for  the  press  and  of  examining  the  sheets  as 
they  were  printed,  was  committed  to  his  hands,  the  Bard  at  the  time  not  being 
able  to  attend  to  it  himself.  He  has  in  a  number  of  instances  among  his  literary 
and  other  friends,  expressed  his  gratitude  both  to  Mr.  Murphy  and  the  writer 
of  this  sketch  for  the  services  rendered  him. 

After  his  removal  from  Baltimore,  which  he  expressed  great  regret  in  leaving, 
he  made  his  residence  in  the  City  of  Wilmington,  of  his  native  State,  Delaware. 
There  he  became  connected  with  the  "Blue  Hen's  Chicken,"  one  of  the  most 
interesting  and  popular  newspapers  ever  published  in  Delaware.  It  was  at  that 
time  owned  by  Messrs.  Jeandell  &  Vincent,  gentlemen  of  enterprise  and  energy 
of  character,  and  well  qualified  for  the  management  of  a  literary  and  commercial 
periodical.  Of  this  paper  the  Bard  became  one  of  the  editors,  and  was  for 
several  years  the  principal  literary  contributor.  Some  of  his  best  and  most 
interesting  productions  were  prepared  for  it.  His  residence  in  Wilmington  was 
of  a  most  interesting  character.  As  in  Baltimore,  he  gathered  around  him  a 
circle  that  sympathized  with  him  under  all  circumstances.  In  many  instances 
he  was  ministered  to  by  his  friends  as  though  he  were  a  favorite  child,  and 
needed  the  attentions  and  affectionate  services  of  those  around  him.  To  Mr . 
Jeandell,  whom  he  regarded  as  a  warm  devoted  friend,  he  frequently  alluded  in 
terms  of  high  regard  and  affection.  His  contributions  to  his  periodical 
were  generally  founded  upon  facts.  Some  of  them  excited  great  interest 
on  that  account.  The  main  features  of  the  Tale  of  the  "Wizard  of  Val- 
ley Forge,"  were  facts,  which  were  well  remembered  by  the  inhabitants  of 
that  vicinity.  They  were  communicated  to  the  Bard  while  on  a  visit  to  the 


22  MEMOIR    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

place  in  company  with  his  friend  Mr.  Jeandell,  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  the 
information.  The  story  of  the  "Broken  Heart"  obtained  a  very  extensive 
circulation.  The  principal  "circumstances  narrated  were  true.  The  following 
letters  upon  the  subject,  written  to  the  Editors  and  Publishers  of  the  "Blue 
Hen's  Chicken,"  and  the  Bard,  will  doubtless  be  read  with  interest. 

" Sept.  14tA,  1848. 

"Dear  Sir — In  consultation  with  some  intimate  friends  this  morning  and  fur- 
ther reflection,  there  appears  to  be  but  one  opinion  respecting  the  publication  at 
this  time  of  the  tale  in  question,  ("The  Broken  Heart,")  and  that  is,  that  it 
would  be  highly  improper  to  do  so. 

"The  facts  as  my  esteemed  friend,  the  Bard,  has  narrated  them,  would  be 
recognized  here  at  once,  and  would  produce  another  round  of  borough  gossip 
dragging  in  the  lamented  subject  of  it,  who  now  sleeps  in  death.  It  would  pro- 
bably, too,  be  considered  by  some  as  though  this  course  was  necessary  to 
bolster  up  a  doubtful  character,  which  no  one  here  will  dare  to  assert. 

"  There  are  other  reasons  for  withholding  the  publication  of  it  at  this  time, 
among  which  is  the  fact,  that  the  friends  of  the  deceased  have  not  yet  returned 
from  Ohio.  They  are  anxious  also  to  remove  her  remains  to  her  native  town. 
At  this  moment,  perhaps,  they  are  on  their  way  hither. 

"  I  am  well  aware  of  the  anxiety  of  some  of  your  readers  to  have  the  tale 
published,  as  they  are  indeed  to  have  every  emanation  from  the  pen  of  the 
gifted  Bard,  and  no  one,  I  assure  you,  devours  his  productions  more  greedily 
than  your  humble  correspondent,  but  unfortunately  this  matter  is  so  pointed, 
and  the  town  so  located  in  which  it  occurred ,  that  it  would  be  improper  at  this 
time  to  publish  it. 

"  Inasmuch  as  you  have  mentioned  in  your  last  paper  that  the  publication  of 
it  had  been  postponed,  no  further  notice  of  it  whatever  is  required  now,  and  I 
presume  the  postponement  will  not  interfere  with  your  arrangements,  especially 
as  the  Bard  can  soon  favor  you  with  a  substitute.  At  a  futur*  day  I  will  cer- 
tainly give  permission  to  publish  it. 

"When  the  Bard  shall  have  concluded  the  narrative,  "will  you  favor  me  with 
the  manuscript?  I  should  like  very  much"  to  read  it,  and  in  a  short  time,  when 
all  excitement  shall  have  been  allayed  here,  I  wll  return  it  for  publication. 
Please  let  me  hear  from  you  on  the  subject. 

"  In  great  haste,  your  friend, 

The  above  letter  has  no  address  but  is  presumed  to  be  to  Messrs.  Jeandell 
&  Vincent.  The  following  is  addressed  to  the  Milford  Bard  : 


Oct.  27,  1848. 


"  Dear  Sir — The  chief  objection  I  had  to  the  publication  of  the  tale  of  "The 
Broken  Heart  "  has  been  removed,  and  although  I  fear  it  will  give  a  notoriety 
which  perhaps  will  be  of  no  advantage  to  me,  yet  I  do  not  longer  object  because 
I  feel  desirous  that  the  world  may  know  the  length  the  demon  of  malice  can  go 
in  the  blasting  of  the  character  of  a  virtuous  female.  A  more  base,  wanton  and 
damnable  accusation  was  never  brought  against  any  living  being  than  that  which 

persecuted  to  the  death,  the  beautiful,  the  beloved  and  virtuous .     Well 

might  she  have  exclaimed,  as  she  frequently  did,  that  she  '  wished  she  were  in 
her  grave.'    Only  the  day  before  her  death,  after  writing  a  most  affectionate 


MEMOIR   OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  23 

and  touching  letter  to  her  mother,  and  another  to  him  upon  whom  she  looked 
as  a  benefactor  and  guardian — her  truest  and  best  friend,  she  said  to  her  cousins 
who  were  at  her  side,  "  I  am  sick,  very  sick,  BUT  I  DO  NOT  FEAR  DEATH  !"  What 
a  triumphant, — glorious  exclamation  for  one  so  near  the  grave?  What  stronger 
rebuke  could  she  have  expressed  of  the  wickedness  of  her  slanderers?  What 
more  consoling  declaration  could  she  have  uttered  to  her  parents  and  friends  ? 
"  Yours,  truly, " 

"To  THE  MlLFORD  BARD." 

The  following  note  was  appended  to  Messrs.  Jeandell  and  Vincent: 

"If  the  locatipn  can  be  changed,  so  as  not  to  mention  our  Borough  in  the 
Tale,  I  would  prefer  it.  I  hesitate  to  ask  the  favor,  fearing  it  may  not  meet  the 
approbation  of  the  Bard.  " 

A  number  of  the  productions  of  the  Bard  contained  in  the  present  volume  of 
his  works,  were  founded  upon  incidents  familiar  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  places 
where  the  events  narrated  transpired.  They  are  now  in  the  possession  of 
many  persons  who  can  testify  to  them  authoritatively.  The  vein  of  morality 
which  runs  through  those  incidents  of  life,  as  they  may  be  called,  is  good,  and 
will  doubtless  have  a  salutary  effect  upon  the  readers  of  the  volume  generally. 

The  writings  of  the  Bard  during  his  residence  in  Baltimore  and  Wilmington 
obtained  for  him  a  widely  extended  notoriety  ;  and  his  efforts  were,  in  many 
instances,  succeeded  by  marks  of  public  approbation.  He  was  elected  an  hon- 
orary member  of  the  Belles-Lettres  Society  of  Dickinson  College.  The  college 
is  situated  in  Carlisle,  Pa.  The  like  honor  was  conferred  upon  him  by  the 
Union  Literary  Society  of  Washington  College,  Washington,  Pa.,  and  by  the 
Phrenakosmian  Society  of  Pennsylvania  College,  Gettysburg,  Pa. 

While  the  Bard  was  in  the  active  pursuit  of  his  labors  in  Wilmington,  he 
was  suddenly 'attacked  by,4ie  illness  which  terminated  in  his  death.  He  was 
writing  the  story  of  "The  Betrayer,  or  the  Fair  Penitent  of  Wilmington,"  a 
story  in  which  he  was  hitnselfsas  before  stated,  one  of  the  principal  characters. 
He  had  proceeded  but  a  little  way  with  the  second  number,  when  he  was 
obliged  to  stop,  and  was  conducted  to  his  bed,  from  which  he  never  arose.  The 
following  are  the  last  words  he  wrote  of  the  story,  which  is  in  a  state  too  unfin- 
ished to  be  presented  to  the  reader:  "Amanda  hesitated — she  was  startled. 
She  felt  that  she  was  under  the  power  of  an  enchanter.  Her  gentle  heart  pal- 
pitated with  love  and  fear! — her  soul  was ." 

A  note  by  the  editor  contains  all  the  information  that  can  be  given  in  relation 
to  the  subject.  The  following  is  the  note: 

"The  above  are  the  last  lines  ever  written  by  the  Milford  Bard.     As  he 

wrote  the  words — "  her  soul  was  " sudden  sickness  seized  him.    He 

dropped  his  pen,  and  never  wrote  a  line  again.  The  conclusion  of  the  Fair 
Penitent,  an  incident  in  the  Bard's  own  life,  will  therefore  for  ever  remain  a 
mystery." 

3 


24  MEMOIR   OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

An  editorial  which  appeared  in  a  previous  number  expresses  the  editor's 
opinion  of  the  production,  and  gives  some  idea  of  its  appreciation  by  the  pub- 
lic, as  also  the  estimate  that  was  placed  upon  the  tale  of  "  The  Broken  Heart. " 

'•THE  BETRAYER,  OR  THE  FAIR  PENITENT  op  WILMINGTON. — We  shall 
publish  in  our  next  paper  the  first  part  of  the  above  thrilling  tale,  by  the  Mil- 
ford  Bard,  whose  stories,  as  well  as  other  writings,  are  exciting  an  interest  in 
other  cities  and  towns  that  is  truly  gratifying  to  us.  We  have  just  received  a 
letter  from  Salem,  New  Jersey,  with  orders  for  our  paper,  in  which  the  gentle- 
manly writer  says,  that  there  is  a  'perfect  mania'  there  for  the  Bard's 
writings.  It  is  no  wonder,  for  they  are  full  of  tenderness  and  feeling — they 
come  from  and  go  to  the  heart.  This  story  will  be  the  most  interesting  to  our 
citizens  of  any  the  Bard  has  ever  written,  because  it  will  not  only  be  a  local 
tale,  every  scene  of  which  was  enacted  in  Wilmington,  but  it  is  a  true  tale,  and 
the  Bard,  himself,  is  one  of  the  characters.  Some  of  the  love  scenes,  between 
Lothario  and  Amanda,  are  powerfully  described,  and  calculated  to  touch  the 
heart  of  sensibility.  The  scene,  too,  between  Mr.  Blondville  and  Lothario, 
when  the  former  charges  the  latter  with  betraying  Amanda  St.  Clair, — when  he 
collars  him,  and  they  cling,  and  Mrs.  Blondville  throws  herself  between  them, 
regardless  of  danger, — when  pistols  are  sought  for  in  the  closet; — but  what  are 
we  doing?  We  are  giving  the  reader  the  secret  of  the  plot,  and  thereby 
abridging  the  pleasure  of  the  perusal.  We  will  say  no  more  on  the  subject. 

"Of  the  tale  of  'The  Broken  Heart,'  we  put  on  the  press  a  tremendous 
extra  edition;  so  large  that  we  were  fearful  that  a  great  portion  would  remain 
on  our  hands;  yet,  by  the  time  the  tale  was  finished,  they  were  gone — we  were 
unable  to  furnish  a  single  set  of  the  numbers.  Of  'The  Betrayer,'  we  shall 
put  to  press  a  still  larger  extra  edition,  for  we  are  not  only  called  on  by  single 
non-subscribers,  but  we  have  orders  for  large  numbers  of  our  papers  contain- 
ing the  stories  of  the  Bard.  We  foresee  that  great  curiosity  will  be  excited  in 
this  city,  to  know  who  the  characters  are  in  this  story,  which  we  assure  our 
readers  is  true  to  the  letter,  and  transpired  in  this  city  but  a  short  time  since. 
Every  scene  is  described,  as  we  are  informed  by  the  Bard,  just  as  it  occurred. 
We  have  seen  the  lovely  Amanda  St.  Clair,  and  though  the  Bard  has  given  a 
voluptuous  description  of  her,  if  we  may  use  his  words,  yet  he  has  not  exag- 
gerated her  charms.  She  is  indeed  fascinating,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  Lo- 
thario loved  her." 

The  last  letter  of  the  Bard,  which  was  written  a  short  time  before  his  death, 
shows  the  condition  of  his  mind  and  feelings  in  view  of  his  anticipated  decease. 
It  is  expressive  of  a  strange  mingling  of  religious  sentiment  and  resignation 
and  dread  of  the  pains  of  dissolution, — of  doubt  and  hope, — of  uncertainty 
and  despair.  It  is  the  sad  prelude  of  a  result  that  might  well  have  been  antici- 
pated of  a  life  of  waywardness  and  sensual  indulgence.  The  letter  was  printed 
after  the  Bard's  decease,  preceded  by  explanatory  editorial  remarks  in  the 
periodical  of  which  he  was  for  several  years  the  literary  editor.  The  remark 
and  letter  are  as  follow: 


MEMOIR   OF   THE   MILPORD   BARD.  25 

"THE  MILFORD  BARD." 

"The  following  letter  of  our  deceased  friend,  was  written  to  William  T. 
Jeandell,  the  senior  Editor  of  this  paper,  after  one  of  the  '  Bard's  '  unfortunate 
sprees,  during  which  a  slight  falling  out  had  occurred  between  them.  The 
pure  Christian  spirit  of  forgiveness  and  love  gushes  forth  from  a  good  heart, 
like  the  cooling  water  from  a  spring  in  the  desert.  It  is  in  some  parts  almost 
prophetic,  particularly  as  to  the  time  of  his  death. 

"  To  MR.  WILLIAM  T.  JEANDELL. 

"  With  feelings  of  despair  at  the  prospect  before  me;  the  prospect  of  a  short 
life,  of  constant  sighs,  tears  and  groans;  of  sleepless  nights,  and  days  of 
anguish,  while  as  decay  goes  on,  Death  will  stare  me  in  the  face. — With  the 
consciousness  that  I  have  the  melancholy  evidence  in  my  own  breast,  that  I 
am  doomed  to  run  the  same  short  race  that  my  beloved  sister  ran,  I  cannot  be 
satisfied  without  disclosing  to  you  the  present  state  of  my  mind,  and  the  pre- 
sent sentiments  of  my  heart.  My  reasons  for  doing  so,  are — that  I  may  be 
suddenly  snatched  out  of  the  world,  either  by  the  arm  of  Omnipotence,  or  by 
my  own  hand;  for  I  candidly  confess  to  you,  that  when  I  now  reflect  upon  the 
bright  prospects  of  earlier  and  happier  years,  and  contrast  them  with  those  of 
the  present — when  I  think  of  the  life  I  have  led,  and  above  all,  that  I  have  been 
instrumental  in  signing  the  death-warrant  which  I  this  moment  feel  in  my  left 
breast,  despair  comes  upon  my  heart  like  an  icy  flood;  the  world  grows  dark 
before  me,  and  I  am  strongly  tempted  to  steal  to  some  lonely  spot,  and  put  an 
end  to  the  fitful  fever  of  life.  You,  no  doubt,  think  from  my  sad  look  and 
silent  manner,  that  there  is  anger  in  my  heart;  but,  oh !  could  you  look  into 
that  heart  you  would  find  no  trace  of  anger  or  animosity — nothing  but  despair. 
"  It  is  my  desire  to  take  the  warning  I  have  had,  and,  in  the  language  of  a 
pious  old  gentleman  in  Baltimore,  '  to  post  up  my  books  in  this  world  and  pre- 
pare for  another.'  I  wish  to  die  as  a  man  should  die;  with  fortitude,  resigna- 
tion and  decency.  I  can  truly  say  that  I  have  no  particular  desire  to  live  in 
this  world,  for  it  has  long  since  ceased  to  give  me  any  pleasure.  I  do  not  fear 
death — it  is  only  the  manner  of  it;  the  thought  of  lingering  for  months  in 
agonizing  misery.  No,  I  often  wish,  in  my  calmest  moments,  that  I  were  in 
the  grave.  All  that  now  harrows  up  my  soul  is,  that  I  have  signed  and  sealed 
my  own  death-warrant.  I  am  going  or  have  started  in  the  very  path  that  my 
sister  trod  to  the  grave,  and  could  I  go  down  as  she  did,  with  a  conscience  void 
of  offence,  I  would  not  complain. 

"  I  desire  to  alter  my  life  in  toto,  and  to  live  and  die  in  peace  with  all  man- 
kind. I  can  truly  say,  that  I  do  not  harbor  an  ill-feeling  towards  any  man, 
and  it  is  my  desire  to  do  all  the  good  I  can,  towards  my  fellow-men,  while  I 
live.  From  my  knowledge  of  disease  of  the  lungs,  I  know  full  well  that  I  shall 
not  live  to  see  the  year  1850;  and,  therefore,  it  is  time  for  me  to  think  seriously, 
and  make  my  peace  with  God  and  man.  I  have  outlived  all  my  own  brothers 
and  sisters.  They  all  died  at  an  earlier  age  than  I  now  am,  and  I  have  from 
year  to  year  expected  to  receive  the  summons.  I  received  it  on  the  last  Fourth 
of  July.  On  that  day  I  took  a  long  walk  into  the  country,  and  walked  rapidly 
several  miles,  for  exercise.  I  felt  no  way  sick  until  about  one  minute  before 
the  attack  came  on,  when  a  deathly  sickness  came  over  me.  I  sat  down  under 
a  tree,  to  vomit,  as  I  thought,  when  blood  came  gushing  out  at  my  mouth.  Its 
redness  proved  it  to  be  from  the  lungs.  I  thought  I  should  bleed  to  death,  and 


26  MEMOIR   OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

resigned  myself.  How  long  I  remained  there,  or  whether  I  fainted,  I  do  not 
know.  I  afterward  took  medicine  to  relieve  me.  This  was  not  on  the  Bran- 
dywine;  I  was  not  there  that  day.  The  next  day  I  felt  very  unhappy,  and 
went  down  there.  While  there,  I  threw  up  blood  again,  and  one  of  the  men 
said  it  was  a  bad  sign.  I  came  home  and  went  to  bed,  determined  to  be  quiet. 
Should  any  thing  happen  by  which  I  should  be. suddenly  snatched  out  of  the 
world,  I  will  thank  you  if  you  will  inform  my  mother  of  the  event. 

"  I  have  written  this  that  you  may  know  my  mind  and  sentiments.  If  de- 
spair does  not  hurry  me  to  distraction,  I  wish  to  alter  my  life  in  every  respect. 
In  other  words,  to  become  a  better  man  and  die  decently.  ********** 

"  Henceforth  I  will  be  at  enmity  with  no  human  being.  My  late  misfortune 
has  brought  me  to  my  senses.  When  I  am  dead  I  know  you  will  not  remem- 
ber me  in  anger,  and  will  not  think  me  the  worst,  though  the  weakest  of  men, 
I  am  eccentric,  but  my  heart  is  not  evil.  In  my  present  state  of  feeling  and 
resolve,  I  desire  to  be  friendly  with  you,  as  well  as  all  my  fellow-men.  I  hope 
that  nothing  will  ever  again  mar  the  good  feeling  between  us.  It  would  render 
me  in  my  present  state,  very  unhappy,  were  I  to  think  that  you  would  not  for- 
get and  forgive  the  past.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  have  never  felt  that  I  could 
do  you  an  injury.  I  may  have  said  harsh  things  in  drunken  madness,  but 
never  when  in  my  reason.  I  have  ever  felt  that  you  was  my  nearest  friend, 
since  I  came  to  Wilmington,  and  though  I  have  been  strange  in  my  ways  and 
manners,  I  can  say  in  the  presence  of  God,  that  I  have  never  seen  the  moment 
when  in  my  reason,  that  I  could  have  injured  you.  For  the  truth  of  this,  as  a 
dying  man,  I  call  God  to  witness,  before  whose  bar  I  must  ere  long  stand. 
Think  not,  then,  that  I  have  any  ill-feeling  towards  you.  In  the  sincerity  of 
my  heart,  I  hope  God  may  bless  you  with  long  life,  prosperity  and  happiness. 
The  day  will  come,  my  dear  fellow,  when  you  will  think  of  me  with  pity  and 
sorrow,  when  I  shall  be  slumbering  in  the  cold  grave.  In  writing  this  letter,  I 
have  discharged  some  of  the  feelings  of  my  heart,  and  I  do  not  feel  so  melan- 
choly. To  fall  out  with  a  friend  is  equal  to  a  spell  of  sickness,  to  me,  of  a 
week's  duration.  Such  a  thing  shall  never  occur  again,  if  I  can  help  it.  Again, 
I  wish  you  to  consider  me  friendly,  though  sad,  and  that  I  feel  no  anger 
toward  any  human  being,  much  less  towards  you. 

"  Yours  in  heartfelt  friendship  and  sadness, 

"JOHN  LOFLAND." 

After  a  brief  illness  the  Bard  paid  the  great  debt  of  nature  on  the  22d  day  of 
January,  1849.  He  died  in  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age,  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  circle  of  friends,  many  of  whom  were  very  much  devoted  to  him,  and 
were  greatly  affected  at  his  unexpected  decease.  In  accordance  with  his  own 
request,  he  was  buried  in  the  Cemetery  of  St.  Andrew's  Church,  Wilmington, 
by  the  side  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  S.  V.  Chambers,  wife  of  the  Rev.  Corry  Cham- 
bers, a  clergyman  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church.  During  the  whole  of 
his  life  he  was  very  much  attached  to  this  sister.  A  few  weeks  before  his 
death  he  visited  her  grave,  and  gave  vent  to  his  feelings  while  standing  by  the 
monument  erected  over  her  remains,  in  one  of  his  most  tender  poetic  effusions. 
It  will  be  found  in  this  volume. 

Of  the  writings  of  the  Bard,  a  great  proportion  of  which  are  collected  in  this 
volume,  the  reader  will  judge  for  himself.  They  are  of  various  degrees  of 


MEMOIR   OF   THE   MILFORD    BARU.  27 

merit,  and  will  doubtless  afford  both  pleasure  and  profit  in  their  perusal.  The 
most  of  them  appear  to  have  been  written  with  ease,  and  in  a  pleasantly  glow- 
ing style.  They  afford  indications  of  the  buoyant  spirits  of  the  Bard,  as  well 
as  of  a  religious  impress,  which,  in  spite  of  his  wanderings,  had  its  influence 
upon  his  mind.  He  composed  with  facility.  Perhaps  the  most  prominent 
characteristic  of  his  poetry  is  the  ease  with  which  it  appears  to  have  been  writ- 
ten. The  following  lines,  a  copy  of  which  was  found  among  his  papers,  were 
composed,  in  a  few  minutes,  in  the  house  of  the  writer  of  this  memoir,  upon 
whom  he  called  to  make  the  compliments  of  the  season  on  Christmas  day, 
1842.  On  being  informed  by  the  servant  that  the  family  were  out,  he  took  a 
slip  of  paper  and  a  pencil  from  his  pocket,  and  placing  the  paper  against  the 
wall,  wrote  the  lines. 


mil  frnnfr  Ht'SUtnn: 


According  to  my  promise  made  last  year, 

I've  called  again,  but  find  you  are  not  here.      '  '^.  . 

O  may  the  blessed  boon  to  us  be  given 

To  meet  together  at  the  gates  of  Heaven; 

There  may  we  tune  the  holy  harps  above, 

And  gather  laurels  in  the  land  of  love  — 

There  in  the  blooming  garden  of  our  God, 

Beyond  the  dreary,  all-entombing  sod, 

When  suns  and  stars  and  systems  shall  consume, 

And  vast  creation  crumble  in  the  tomb, 

O  may  we  mingle  with  the  mighty  throng, 

And  sing  through  heaven  an  endless,  joyous  song  ! 

Votre  tres  humble  serviteur, 
Christmas  Day,  1842.  MILFORD  BARD. 

N.  B.     As  I  last  Christmas  day  was  here, 
I'll  call  again  this  time  next  year. 

The  Bard  appears  to  have  entertained  a  high  regard  for  religion,  although  he 
does  not  seem  to  have  had  any  definite  views  of  the  subject.  Nearly  all  the 
religious  instruction  he  received  was  communicated  by  his  mother,  who  was 
herself,  for  some  time  after  her  marriage,  deprived  of  the  opportunity  of  inter- 
course with  religious  society.  The  family  of  his  father  was  connected  with  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  but  for  forty  or  fifty  years  there  was  no  clergy- 
man in  the  vicinity  of  his  residence,  and  of  course  no  service  was  held  there. 
It  was  not  until  the  year  1836,  when  the  Bard  was  in  his  thirty-eighth  year, 
that  the  old  Savana  Church,  near  Milford,  then  in  ruins,  was  revived  by  the 
Rev.  Corry  Chambers.  The  Bard's  habits  were  then  fixed,  and  he  had  pro- 
gressed considerably  in  his  wayward  career.  His  mother  joined  the  Methodist 
society,  but  the  Bard  was  never  inclined  to  follow  her  example.  His  sister, 


28  MEMOIR    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

the  wife  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Chambers,  was  a  member  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church. 

Mrs.  Chambers  was  a  woman  of  considerable  energy  and  talent.  Her  letters 
were  well  written,  and  of  highly  interesting  character.  She  composed  and  pub- 
lished a  number  of  poetical  articles.  Some  of  them  appeared  in  the  periodicals 
of  the  neighborhood  in  which  she  lived.  The  following  is  copied  from  the 
"Blue  Hen's  Chicken." 


BY  S.  V.  CHAMBERS. 

SOME  are  toiling  hard  for  pleasure, 
In  the  fleeting  things  of  time; 

Hoarding  up  their  earthly  treasure, 
Digging  deep  in  sorrow's  mine. 

Some  the  midnight  lamp  are  burning, 
Lost  in  books  they  sit  alone; 

Thinking  that  a  store  of  learning, 
May  for  wealth  and  health  atone. 

Others  to  the  wars  are  speeding, 
Seeking  for  a  wreath  of  fame; 

Death,  nor  blood,  nor  carnage  heeding, 
So  they  gain  a  warrior's  name. 

Some  for  beauty  now  are  sighing, 

Using  every  hidden  art; 
Paint  and  powder  oft  applying, 

To  enchain  some  roving  heart. 

Some  are  wasting  precious  hours, 
In  the  ball-room,  o'er  the  bowl; 

Heeding  not  the  storm  that  lowers, 
O'er  the  much  neglected  soul? 

Why  should  mortals  thus  be  drinking, 
Pleasure  in  the  things  of  time; 

Never  once  of  judgment  thinking, 
Or  the  blacken  'd  list  of  crime? 

Cease  to  court  this  earthly  stranger, 
Stop  and  spend  a  solemn  thought; 

The  soul  is  precious,  why  endanger, 
That  which  is  so  dearly  bought. 


MEMOIR   OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  29 

The  death  of  the  Bard  produced  a  considerable  sensation  in  Wilmington,  and 
was  succeeded  by  the  regret  of  his  friends  in  Baltimore  and  elsewhere.  A 
number  of  pieces  were  written  upon  his  death,  most  of  which  were  published 
in  the  Blue  Hen's  Chicken.  With  the  insertion  of  two  of  these  we  close  this 
brief  memoir. 

1  litgt  on  §t  Imtjr  of  tjp  Jfiilfnrb 

BY  ROMEO. 

THE   shaft  of  Death   with  fatal  aim, 

Has  pierced   the  tuneful   throng, 
And  high   within   the  dome   of  fame, 

Has   slain  a  child   of  song. 
That  mind   of  genius  and   of  lore, 

Touch 'd  with   Promethean  fire, 
Alas !  its  music  swells  no  more 

Among  the   earthly  choir; 
Cold  is  the  hand   that   touched  the  string, 
And  hushed  the  chords  symphonious  ring, 

And  broken  is  his  lyre. 

No  more  the  rosy  wreath  he'll  twine, 

From  legendary  flowers; 
No   more  he'll  lead  the  tuneful  Nine 

To   trip  in  fancy's  bowers; 
No  more  he'll  sing  his  country's  fame. 

Warm'd  by  her  heroes'  fire; 
duench'd  is  the  patriotic  flame 

That  did  those  thoughts  inspire; 
Cold  lies  in  death  his  honored  brow, 
His  heart  is  still  and  pulseless  now, 

And  broken  is  his  lyre. 

No   more  his  soul  that  lyre  shall  tune 

With  sweet  enchanting  spell, 
Like  warbling  birds  in  lovely  June, 

Or  harp  ^Eolian's   swell; 
No  more  will  beauty's  rosy  blush, 

His  melting  muse  inspire, 
Or  his  responsive  feelings  gush 

Upon  the  trembling  wire; 
Chilled  is  that  heart's  impulsive  move, 
That  felt  the  thrilling  touch  of  love, 

And  broken  is  his  lyre. 

But  friends  bereav'd   refrain  from  woe, 
There's  peace  for  him  you  love, 


30 


MEMOIR    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

Though  one  less  harp  is  heard   below, 

There  is  one  more  above; 
Although  he  sleeps  beneath  the  sod, 

A  form  without  its  fire, 
His  soul  ascendeth   to  his  God, 

Among  the  happy  choir; 
And   there  with   that   seraphic  throng, 
He  joins  with  an  immortal   tongue, 

And  strikes  anew  his  lyre. 


In  Inmbh 

TO  THE  MEMOEY  OF  THE  MILFORD  BARD. 

THE   Bard   that  erst  so   sweetly  sung, 

To  the  cold  and  silent  grave  hath  gone; 
His  lyre  hangs   on   the   yew,  unstrung — 

His  chamber  is  all  dark  and  lone. 
The  Poet's  soul,  its  mystic  flight 

Hath   winged  from   this   drear  world  of  sin, 
Upward,  to  those  glorious  realms   of  light, 

Whose  courts  no   sorrow  reigns  within. 
His  lifeless  body,  let  us  bear, 

And  lay  it  in  a  marble  tomb; 
And  let  us  ever  nurture  there 

The  Amaranth's  unfading  bloom.  G 


THE  WIZARD  OF  VALLEY  FORGE, 


OR  THE 


CHAPTER    I. 

Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea."— SONG  or  MARION'S  MEN. 

N  the  llth  of  December,  1777,  was  seen  the 
American  Army,  consisting  of  12,000  regulars, 
and  3,000  militia,  under  the  command  of  the 
now  world-worshipped  Washington,  on  the 
Toad  from  White  Marsh  to  Valley  Forge ;  and 
a  more  miserable  looking  army  never  followed 
that  redoubtable  hero  John  Falstaff,  of  whom 
the  immortal  Shakspeare  has  given  us  so  graphic 
a  description.  But  notwithstanding  their  mis- 
erable appearance,  never  did  a  braver  set  of 
men  endure  hardships  in  the  cause  of  liberty — 
hardships  that  would  appal  the  stoutest  at  the 
present  time,  and  such  as  are  unknown  to  our 
soldiers  at  this  day. 

No  language  is  adequate  to  the  task  of  de- 
scribing the  privations  and  sufferings  through 
which  these  self-devoted  men  passed,  that  they  and  their  posterity 
might  enjoy  the  blessings  of  freedom.  Shoes  and  shirts  were  a 
luxury  among  them.  Thousands  were  barefooted,  and  as  they 
trod  with  their  scarred  and  cracked  feet  the  frozen  ground,  they 
left  their  tracks  in  blood.  Some  poor  fellows  could  boast  of  having 
one  whole  shirt,  which,  when  taken  off,  would  almost  be  moved 


26  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

by  vermin ;  some  had  only  a  piece  of  one,  while  the  greater  part 
had  none  at  all.  To  cap  the  climax  of  misery,  but  a  very  few  had 
the  luxury  of  a  blanket  in  which  to  wrap  themselves  at  night,  and 
as  straw  could  not  be  obtained,  the  greater  part  were  under  the 
necessity  of  sleeping  on  the  humid  ground,  fast  to  which  they 
were  not  unfrequently  found  frozen  in  the  morning. 

Scarcely  had  Washington  established  himself  in  his  winter-quar- 
ters, ere  it  was  found  that  the  magazines  did  not  contain  much 
more  than  a  single  day's  provision.  Benumbed  with  cold,  and 
enfeebled  by  hunger,  disease  was  the  consequence ;  and  the  hos- 
pitals were  filled  up  as  fast  as  the  dead  were  removed.  A  fatal 
fetor  arose  from  the  multitude  of  sick  soldiers,  confined  in  badly 
constructed  buildings,  and  hospital  fever  was  the  consequence, 
which  could  not  be  alleviated  or  warded  off  by  wholesome  diet, 
change  of  linen,  and  proper  medicines,  as  none  of  them  were  to 
be  had.  Even  the  coarsest  diet,  and  that  in  small  quantities,  was 
scarcely  attainable. 

More  than  three  thousand  of  these  brave  men  were  exempted 
from  duty  on  account  of  their  nakedness,  and  the  sufferings  they 
endured  from  intense  cold.  "The  patience  with  which  these  pa- 
triotic votaries  of  freedom  endured  such  complicated  evils,"  says  a 
distinguished  female  historian,  "is,  we  believe,  without  a  parallel 
in  history.  To  go  to  battle,  cheered  by  the  trumpet  and  the  drum, 
with  victory  or  the  speedy  bed  of  honor  before  the  soldier,  requires 
a  heroic  effort ;  much  more  to  starve,  to  freeze,  to  lie  down  and 
die,  in  silent  obscurity.  Sparta  knew  the  names  of  the  three  hun- 
dred who  fell  for  her  at  the  Pass  of  Thermopylae ;  but  America 
knows  not  the  names  of  the  hundreds  who  perished  for  her  in  the 
Camp  of  Valley  Forge." 

But  though  their  names  are  unknown,  their  memory  has  been 
immortalized  on  the  imperishable  pages  of  history  as  martyrs,  who 
perished  to  perpetuate  the  sacred  principles  of  freedom,  and  the 
glorious  privileges  we  enjoy;  and  which  we  are  bound,  by  every 
impulse  of  honor  and  gratitude,  to  transmit  untarnished  to  the 
millions  yet  unborn.  Ye  mothers  of  America — ye  daughters  of 
the  illustrious  women  of  SEVENTY-SIX  ;  teach  your  sons  and 
daughters  the  story  of  the  mighty  sacrifice  ;  of  the  melancholy  mar- 
tyrdom of  those  who  immolated  themselve^  on  the  sacred  altar  of 
their  country — teach  them  the  story  of  the  suffering  and  death 
which  the  heroic  sons  and  daughters  of  Seventy-Six  endured,  that 
they  may  learn  the  price  of  liberty;  that  they  may  realize  the  value 
of  the  virtues  that  achieved  it ;  and  of  the  privileges  they  enjoy ; 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  27 

and  that  their  hearts  may  be  imbued  with  a  sense  of  the  gratitude 
they  owe  to  the  illustrious  men  who  planned,  and  the  brave  sol- 
diers who  battled  and  bled  for  freedom.  The  virtues  and  the  valor 
of  those  men  and  mothers  must  not  be  forgotten.  They  must 
brighten  still  brighter,  as  they  roll  down  the  restless  tide  of  time ; 
and  the  youth  of  our  country  shall  catch  inspiration  from  the  death- 
less deeds  recorded  on  the  record  of  renown,  and  at  the  shrines  of 
those  martyrs  of  emancipated  America. 

There  were  several  causes  to  which  the  sad  and  suffering  con- 
dition of  the  American  army  could  be  traced,  the  first  of  which  I 
shall  mention,  is  that  of  bills  of  credit,  which  had  depreciated  in 
value  one-fourth.  Linen  and  leather  had  become  extremely  scarce, 
and  contracts  had  been  entered  into  by  the  commissaries,  at  ten 
per  cent,  more  than  the  price  at  which  they  were  sold.  Congress 
refused  to  accede  to  this  arrangement,  and  stipulated  that  bills  of 
credit  should  be  paid  as  specie  for  supplies.  The  result  was,  that 
the  materials  could  not  be  procured  on  these  conditions ;  for  the 
paper  currency  was  vastly  depreciated,  and  all  articles  of  consump- 
tion had  advanced  in  price. 

To  add  to  the  distress  of  the  great  and  good  Washington,  many 
of  his  bravest  and  brightest  officers  resigned  their  stations  in  the 
army,  disgusted  at  the  degraded  situation  in  which  they  were 
placed ;  for,  after  having  spent  their  private  fortunes  in  endeavor- 
ing to  support  the  dignity  to  which  they  were  entitled,  they  found, 
that  so  far  from  being  able  to  make  a  respectable  appearance,  and 
live  as  officers  of  rank  should  live,  they  were  unable  to  procure 
the  necessaries  of  life. 

To  cap  the  climax  of  Washington's  troubles,  and  to  show  his 
virtues  in  still  brighter  light,  intrigues  were  got  up  against  that 
great  man,  and  all  the  influences  of  envy  and  calumny  were 
brought  to  blast  him.  The  object  was  to  disgust  him  with  his  sit- 
uation as  commander-in-chief,  and  thus  drive  him  from  the  army ; 
that  General  Gates  might  be  promoted,  whose  fame  was  just  then 
in  its  zenith,  on  account  of  his  brilliant  success  in  the  capture  of 
Burgoyne  and  his  whole  army. 

One  of  the  principal  men  engaged  in  this  attempt  to  break  down 
Washington,  was  General  Conway,  from  France,  a  wily  intriguer, 
and  charged  with  being  the  author  of  the  letters  signed  D'Lisle. 
He  represented  to  all  the  members  of  Congress  that  there  was  no 
order  or  regulation  in  the  Camp  at  Valley  Forge,  and  he  was  ap- 
pointed inspector-general  by  Congress.  Congress  received  a 
remonstrance  from  Pennsylvania,  censuring  in  strong  language 


28  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

the  measures  of  Washington :  and  another  from  members  from 
Massachusetts,  Samuel  Adams  being  one  of  them .  They  were  dis- 
pleased that  a  Virginian  should  command  the  army,  instead  of  one  of 
their  own  generals,  whom  they  ranked  as  superior  to  Washington. 
Gates  and  Mifflin,  both  believed  to  be  engaged  in  the  machinations 
against  the  commander-in-chief,  were  placed  at  the  head  of  a 
board  of  war;  and  Congress,' at  the  suggestion  of  this  board, 
ordered  an  expedition  against  Canada,  without  consulting  Wash- 
ington. He  was  ordered  to  detach  La  Fayette  for  the  object,  but 
he  was  recalled  from  Albany,  and  the  expedition  there  ended. 

During  this  dark  crusade  of  envy  and  calumny  against  suffering 
virtue,  the  confidence  of  Congress  in  the  commander-in-chief  was 
shaken ;  but  persecuted  virtue  ever  comes  forth  from  the  fiery 
ordeal  more  bright  and  beautiful,  and  thus  it  was  with  the  man 
whose  memory  is  now  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  all. 


CHAPTER   II. 

"  I  have  seen  an  American  General  and  Ms  officers,  without  pay,  and  almost  without 
clothes,  dining  on  roots,  and  drinking  water,  and  all  these  privations  undergone  for  Liberty." 
REPLY  OF  A  BRITISH  OFFICER  TO  COL.  WATSON. 

)HE  indignation  of  the  army  and  of  the  people  surpassed 
any  thing  that  language  can  portray,  when  the  intrigues 
against  Washington  were  revealed.  The  soldiers  were 
excited  to  the  highest  degree  against  the  authors  of  this 
persecution,  particularly  Conway  ;  and  even  Samuel  Adams  found 
it  unsafe  to  approach  the  army.  In  the  camp,  the  cottage,  and  the 
cabinet,  all  were  exasperated ;  and  this  gave  the  tories,  and  the 
British  army  quartered  in  Philadelphia,  much  comfort,  as  they 
hoped  it  would  result  in  the  resignation  of  Washington.  Conway 
was  succeeded  as  inspector-general  by  Baron  Steuben,  a  Prussian 
officer,  and  dared  not  make  his  appearance  among  the  soldiers. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  the  Spring  of  1778 ;  the  lofty 
woodlands  of  Valley  Forge  were  alive  with  feathered  songsters, 
and  all  nature  was  bursting  from  her  long  and  dreary  sleep  to  put 
on  her  gorgeous  robe  of  green,  when  Washington,  who  had  long 
been  reflecting  in  his  tent  on  the  dangers  which  had,  and  still  sur- 
rounded him,  arose,  went  forth,  and  taking  the  arm  of  La  Fayette, 
proceeded  along  the  road  which  led  to  the  Forge.  The  army  was 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  29 

encamped  on  the  high  hill,  which  rises  to  the  east  of  that  place, 
and  they  were  taking  the  western  road,  occasionally  stopping  to 
survey  the  lofty  hills  covered  with  dark  woodlands,  which  arose  in 
all  their  gloomy  grandeur  at  a  little  distance  in  the  south.  They 
were  surrounded  on  all  sides  with  dark  dense  woodlands,  some  of 
the  oaks  of  which  had  perhaps  braved  the  storms  of  a  thousand 
years,  and  they  were  deeply  engaged  in  conversation. 

"Think  no  more  of  the  matter,"  said  La  Fayette,  "for  I  assure 
you,  General,  that  Congress  has  seen  its  error,  in  listening  to  the 
machinations  of  those  envious  men." 

"I  have  never  noticed  my  personal  enemies,"  returned  Wash- 
ington, "for  I  have  enough  to  do  to  contend  with  the  enemies  of 
my  country." 

"  You  have  triumphed  over  the  one,"  rejoined  La  Fayette,  "and 
God  grant  that  you  may  yet  triumph  over  the  other.  It  is  rumored 
that  your  countrymen,  now  in  Paris,  Benjamin  Franklin,  Silas 
Deane,  and  Arthur  Lee,  have  negotiated  a  treaty  with  France,  and 
if  so,  which  God  grant  it  may  be,  you  may  bid  defiance  to  the  lion 
of  England." 

"  God  grant  it  may  be  so,"  repeated  Washington,  who  had  partly 
fallen  into  a  musing  mood,  "  for  we  are  surrounded  by  dangers  on 
-every  side,  not  least  of  which  are  the  foes  who  are  in  our  very 
midst,  yet  who  profess  to  be  our  friends.  Nothing  but  the  mighty 
arm  of  God  can  lead  us  to  victory." 

As  Washington  spoke,  he  lifted  up  his  ,eyes  to  Heaven,  and 
stood  for  a  moment  in  a  sublimely  solemn  attitude,  wrapt  as  it 
were  in  devotion.  La  Fayette  was  silent. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Washington,  as  they  turned  into  a  by-path 
that  led  into  the  very  depth  of  the  forest,  "  I  am  satisfied  that  the 
power  alone  of  Him,  who  spoke  the  universe  into  existence,  can 
give  a  handful  of  men  in  distress,  the  victory  over  the  legions  of 
England,  fresh  from  the  well-fought  fields  of  Europe ;  and  to  Him 
alone  I  shall  look  for  strength  to  put  down  our  enemies.  If  God 
is  with  us,  the  treaty  with  France  has  been  made,  and  we  shall 
triumph." 

"  We  shall  triumph,"  repeated  a  mysterious  person,  in  a  hollow, 
sepulchral  voice,  who  was  seated  on  a  hollow  tree  to  the  left  of  the 
path  which  they  were  pursuing.  Washington  instantly  drew  his 
sword,  and  demanded — "Are  you  a  friend  or  foe? — speak." 

"  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me,"  after  some  pause,  said  the 
strange  looking  individual.  "  You  have  seen  me  ere  this,  and  you 
will  no  doubt  see  me  again,  ere  the  war  is  ended." 


30  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"  Your  manner,  as  well  as  your  meaning,  is  mysterious,"  ob- 
served La  Fayette,  as  he  stood  with  a  pistol  in  his  hand ;  the 
thought  flashing  upon  his  mind,  that  they  might  be  surprised  by  a 
party  of  tories,  or  the  British  in  disguise,  and  concealed  in  the 
woods;  inasmuch  as  tories  were  said  to  reside  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Valley  Forge,  and  as  the  British  general,  in  Philadelphia, 
by  order  of  his  government,  had  offered  a  large  reward  to  any  per- 
son who  would  bribe,  or  by  stratagem  bear  off  any  of  the  principal 
American  officers ;  and  an  immense  reward  to  the  daring  indivi- 
dual who  should  take,  or  betray  George  Washington,  into  the 
hands  of  the  British. 

"Put  up  your  weapons,  gentlemen,"  said  the  mysterious  man, 
"for  I  again  assure  you  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear,  but  much  to 
hope  from  me.  I  know  you  both,  though  I  am  unknown  to  you, 
and  must  remain  so  ;  for  my  history  is  beyond  your  reach.  Seek 
not,  I  beseech  you,  to  know  me  any  further,  that  I  may  volunta- 
rily be  of  service  to  you." 

Washington  could  not  avoid  smiling  at  the  idea  of  such  a 
looking  object  being  of  service  to  him ;  yet  he  was  staggered  at 
his  confident  tone,  and  the  still  more  mysterious  language  which 
he  used.  How  such  an  abject  looking  being  could  be  of  any  ser- 
vice to  the  army  he  was  at  a  loss  to  conjecture ;  but  Washington 
had  sufficient  knowledge  of  human  nature  to  know,  that  it  is  not 
always  safe  to  judge,  or  form  an  estimate  of  a  man's  character  or 
qualities,  by  his  external  appearance. 

"Who  are  you,  and  from  whence?"  enquired  Washington,  as 
he  approached  the  mysterious  man. 

"  Yovt  do  not  know  who  I  am,  and  never  can,  as  I  told  you  be- 
fore," returned  the  stranger.  "  My  present  habitation,  like  your 
own,  is  in  the  dark  forest  of  Valley  Forge ;  yet,  mean  as  I  may 
appear  to  you,  I  have  moved  amid  the  mightiest  men,  and  shone 
in  the  princely  palaces  and  courts  of  Europe;  have  trod  the  halls 
of  grandeur  and  gaiety,  and  am  not  unknown  in  the  temples  of 
learning.  But  pardon  me,  I  can  say  no  more ;  save  to  assure  you 
that  no  coward  blood  runs  in  my  veins,  and  that  I  am  not  what  I 
seem." 

If  Washington  and  La  Fayette  were  excited  by  curiosity  before, 
they  were  still  more  so  now ;  and  they  stood  for  a  time  gazing 
upon  him,  with  a  consciousness  that  he  was  a  man  of  no  ordinary 
stamp,  as  was  now  strongly  evinced  by  his  manner,  and  still  more 
by  his  language.  A  man  of  superior  intellect  and  education,  may 
be  easily  distinguished  from  one  of  an  opposite  character.  There 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  '  31 

is  a  nameless  something,  a  peculiarity  of  mien  and  manner,  which 
I  cannot  describe,  that  renders  him  as  readily  distinguished  from 
an  ordinary  and  ignorant  man,  though  there  may  be  no  difference 
in  dress,  as  he  would  be  by  difference  in  features. 

"  We  are  satisfied,"  said  Washington,  "  that  you  are  not  what 
you  seem ;  and  we  would  fain  know  your  history,  and  render  you 
any  assistance  in  our  power;  but  as  you  have  forbidden  any  fur- 
ther enquiry,  we  will  not  intrude." 

"  As  to  assistance,"  returned  the  stranger,  with  a  polite  obei- 
sance, "  I  need  it  not;  but  I  expect  to  assist  you  and  your  nation, 
in  rending  asunder  the  chains  that  have  so  long  rattled  on  your 
arms,  and  in  hurling  to  the  earth  the  galling  yoke  that  has  so  long 
bowed  you  to  the  dust.  All  I  ask  is,  to  have  free  access  to  your 
person,  and  permission  to  enter  and  leave  the  camp,  when  and  at 
what  time  I  please." 

"But,"  returned  Washington,  as  he  turned  his  scrutinizing  eye 
on  the  stranger,  "we  must  have  confidence " 

"Ah,"  replied  the  truly  mysterious  man,  "when  you  know  me 
longer,  you  will  like  rne  better;  that  is,  if  you  will  always  know 
me,  for  I  am  like  Protsus — I  assume  many  shapes.  Would  you 
know  whether  I  am  an  American  at  heart?  Look  at  that." 

He  handed  him  a  copy  of  an  oath,  taken  by  him  before  a  civil 
officer  who  was  well  known  to  Washington  ;  a  powerful  oath, 
never  to  rest  until  the  country  should  be  freed  from  the  thraldom 
of  Great  Britain,  and  he  had  revenged  his  injuries,  without  stating 
what  they  were.  At  this  moment  a  lieutenant,  in  company  with 
another  officer,  approached  the  interesting  spot,  from  the  interior 
of  the  forest. 

"  His  Excellency,  the  commander-in-chief,  and  General  LaFay- 
ette,"  exclaimed  the  officer,  "in  conversation  with  the  strangest, 
most  mysterious  being  I  have  ever  seen  !" 

"Lieutenant,  do  you  know  this  man?"  enquired  Washington. 

"  As  much,  I  presume,  your  Excellency,"  replied  the  lieutenant, 
"  as  any  one  does;  for  he  is  the  most  singular  and  deceptive  be- 
ing I  have  ever  met." 

"  Did  I  ever  deceive  you  ?"  enquired  the  stranger,  with  a  haughty 
air,  and  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height. 

"You  misunderstand  me,"  returned  the  lieutenant,  "I  only 
meant  that  it  was  hard  to  comprehend  you.  Why,  gentlemen,  at 
the  taking  of  Burgoyne  he  fought  like  a  tiger;  was  at  one  time 
down  on  the  field,  with  a  stalwart  Hessian  over  him,  in  the  act  of 
giving  him  his  death-warrant,  when  he  suddenly  drew  a  pistol,  and 


32'  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

sent  a  ball  to  the  heart  of  his  antagonist.  At  another  time  I  saw 
him  battling,  single-handed,  with  three  Englishmen,  when  I  went 
to  his  assistance.  I  have  met  him  on  several  occasions ;  but  had 
he  not  made  himself  known,  I  should  never  have  recognized  him 
as  the  same  being.  He  is  here,  there,  and  every  where." 

"  He  may  be  of  service  to  us,"  said  Washington,  turning  to  La 
Fayette. 

"Right,"  returned  La  Fayette,  "especially  in  secret  expedi- 
tions." 

"You  will  find  in  me  a  friend,"  observed  the  stranger,  "though 
you  may  not  at  all  times  recognize  me  as  such." 

"Then,"  said  Washington  earnestly,  "I  will  see  that  your  wish 
shall  be  gratified — you  shall  at  all  times  have  free  access  to  the 
camp,  and  my  person.  To  have  fought  against  Burgoyne  is  a  suffi- 
cient recommendation,  and  entitles  you  to  my  regard." 

"I  ask  no  further  favors,"  returned  the  mysterious  stranger. 
"What  services  I  may  render,  will  be  as  much  to  gratify  my  own 
revenge,  as  to  benefit  you  and  your  country.  Seek  not  to  know 
who  I  am,  as  your  curiosity  would  be  gratified  at  the  cost  of  my 
services.  In  other  words,  the  knowledge  you  would  acquire, 
would  place  it  out  of  my  power  to  benefit  you.  Be  not  surprised 
at  any  disguise  I  may  assume,  or  at  any  situation  in  which  I  may 
be  placed ;  but  be  assured  of  my  fidelity.  Be  my  disguise  still 
impenetrable,  my  name  unknown.  Should  I  ask  any  assistance, 
render  it,  without  seeking  to  know  the  why  or  wherefore.  This  is 
all  I  have  to  ask,  and  you  to  grant;  and  if  I  do  not  render  you 
service,  it  will  be  because  it  is  beyond  my  power — if  I  prove  re- 
creant to  my  vow,  may  the  lightnings  of  Heaven " 

"Enough,"  exclaimed  Washington,  interrupting  him. 

All  stood  gazing  on  the  mysterious  individual  with  perfect  as- 
tonishment ;  not  so  much  at  what  he  promised,  as  at  the  confi- 
dence and  dignity  of  his  language  and  manner,  which  so  ill  ac- 
corded with  his  plebeian  appearance.  His  dress  consisted  of  a  pair 
of  linsey-woolsey  trowsers,  instead  of  breeches;  an  old  vest,  a 
slouched  hat,  a  pair  of  coarse  brogues,  and  a  check  shirt,  but  no 
coat.  His  person  was  more  remarkable.  His  head  was  peculiarly 
intellectual.  His  forehead,  which  was  extremely  high  and  broad, 
jutted  far  over  his  keen  penetrating  eyes,  which  were  black  as  jet, 
and  gave  to  his  countenance  the  expression  of  deep  thoughtful- 
ness.  There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  his  face,  save  his 
compressed  mouth,  which  was  strongly  indicative  of  a  determined 
spirit — a  spirit  as  dauntless  as  it  was  determined.  The  whole  face 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  33 

and  form,  manner  and  movement,  were  indicative  of  an  educated 
and  enlightened  being,  born  to  command,  and  to  move  in  a  higher 
sphere  than  that  in  which  he  seemed  to  move.  His  form,  built  for 
activity,  seemed  to  be,  and  was  endowed  with  Herculean  strength; 
for  he  gave  a  proof  of  it  by  lifting  the  lieutenant  from  the  ground, 
who  was  of  ordinary  size,  with  one  arm,  at  arm's  length.  He  also 
amused  the  company  by  bending  down  a  young  tree,  which  two 
of  them  could  not  accomplish. 

It  did  not  require  the  practised  eye  of  Washington  long  to  dis- 
cover the  inherent  superiority  of  this  mysterious  man;  and  the 
more  he  conversed  with  him,  the  more  was  he  convinced  that 
there  was  something  extraordinary,  as  well  as  strange,  in  the  being 
before  him.  Though  weather-beaten,  and  weighed  down  by  hard- 
ship, the  stranger  -appeared  to  be  in  the  full  vigor  of  manhood ; 
not  more,  perhaps,  than  forty  years  old,  though,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  difficult  to  guess  his  age. 

"I  bid  you  farewell,"  said  Washington,  grasping  the  hand  of 
the  stranger,  "I  hope  we  shall  meet  again,  to  our  mutual  benefit." 

"I  hope  so,"  repeated  he;  "but  of  our  present,  and  future  in- 
terviews, let  nothing  be  said." 

Washington  and  La  Fayette  turned  their  steps  towards  the 
camp,  attended  by  the  officers,  who  were  a  few  steps  behind. 

"A  strange  individual,"  ejaculated  La  Fayette;  "but  it  behooves 
you,  General,  to  keep  a  look  out  in  these  troublous  times,  for  we 
know  not  in  whom  to  trust." 

"I  will  answer  for  the  fidelity  of  this  man,"  said  one  of  the 
officers. 

"Ay,  and  so  will  I,"  replied  the  other,  "for  I  saw  him  at  the 
battle  of  Brandywine,  fighting  like  a  tiger.  I  saw  him  at  different 
times,  and  marked  his  peculiar  appearance." 

"I  have  no  fears  on  the  subject,"  said  Washington,  coolly.  "I 
shall  watch  him,  and  be  aware  of  the  first  approach  of  danger." 

Thus  the  conversation,  respecting  the  strange  individual  they 
had  seen,  was  kept  up  until  they  had  reached  the  encampment; 
while  each,  and  all  of  them,  felt  a  secret  desire  to  know  the  his- 
tory of  so  mysterious  a  man. 

The  strange  one,  to  whom  we  have  introduced  the  reader,  and 
whom  we  shall  call  the  mysterious  man,  for  the  want  of  a  know- 
ledge of  his  name,  now  left  the  spot,  where  he  had  had  an  inter- 
view with  others,  besides  the  officers,  and  wended  his  way  to  the 
place  of  his  habitation,  which  was  not  less  mysterious  than  the 
man  who  had  chosen  it  for  his  abode.  There  was  no  path  to  it, 
5 


34  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

for  he  never  left  it  or  returned  to  it  in  the  same  direction.  In  the 
very  depth  of  the  immense  forest,  which  then  extended  from  Valley 
Forge  in  a  north-eastern  direction,  was  an  immense  cave  or  cav- 
ern, the  walls  and  roof  of  which  were  of  solid  rock.  The  door  or 
opening  which  led  to  it,  was  down  a  narrow  defile  of  rocks,  cov- 
ered with  earth  and  shrubbery,  and  so  completely  embosomed,  that 
a  person  might  pass" over  and  around  it  many  times,  without  being 
aware  of  the  existence  of  a  cave,  or  perceiving  the  entrance  to  it. 
A  man  might  stand  in  the  door  or  opening,  and  not  be  seen  by  a 
person  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  so  complete  was  the  roof  of  rocks 
over  his  head. 

In  this  gloomy  cavern  resided  the  mysterious  man;  and  here  he 
concocted  his  plans.  If  the  reader  will  follow  me,  I  will  introduce 
him  into  the  wild,  yet  not  uncomfortable  dwelling.  The  roof  was 
about  ten  feet  from  the  floor;  and  from  the  great  hall  in  the  cen- 
tre, extended  several  recesses  on  either  side;  in  one  of  which  the 
mysterious  man  made  his  bed,  and  in  another  he  wrote;  having  a 
shelving  rock  for  his  desk,  which  was  so  completely  adapted  to 
the  purpose,  that  it  seemed  formed  by  the  hand  of  art.  This  re- 
cess was  just  opposite  the  door-way,  and  sufficient  light  was  ad- 
mitted to  answer  his  purpose.  At  the  furthest  extreme  was  an 
opening,  which  served  for  a  chimney;  and  with  a  moderate  fire, 
he  was  comfortable:  so  entirely  was  he  screened  from  the  stormy 
blasts  of  winter. 


CHAPTER     III. 

•-'t 

"  Now  is  the  Winter  of  our  discontent, 
Made  glorious  Summer  by  this  son  of  York ; 
And  all  the  clouds  that  lower'd  above  our  house, 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried." — SKAKSPKARE. 

)HE  bells  in  various  tpwns  were  ringing  out  merry  peals; 
the  roar  of  cannon  reverberated  along  a  hundred  hills, 
and  bonfires  and  illuminations  told  the  joy  of  the  peo- 
ple, at  the  tidings  of  a  ratification  of  a  treaty  with  the 
French  government,  the  old  rival  and  enemy  of  England.  Joy 
was  depicted  on  every  American  face;  while,  on  the  contrary,  the 
British  were  struck  with  dismay,  though  they  affected  to  treat  the 
matter  with  contempt. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  35 

Washington  despatched  La  Fayette  with  2,000  men,  and  posted 
them  at  Baron  Hill,  about  ten  miles  in  front  of  the  army  at  Valley 
Forge.  This  was  an  advanced  guard,  which  was  intended  to  ha- 
rass the  British  army,  in  case  it  attempted  to  retreat  to  New  York. 

The  news  of  the  capture  of  Burgoyne  and  his  whole  army,  had 
excited  an  intense  sensation  throughout  Europe,  and  particularly 
in  England;  which,  together  with  that  of  a  treaty  between  France 
and  the  United  Colonies,  caused  despondency  in  every  British 
bosom;  for  they  had  sent  generals  and  soldiers  to  America  that 
were  considered  invincible,  and  inferior  to  none  in  Europe.  These 
had  been  vanquished,  and  they  knew  not  what  course  to  pursue; 
for  if  the  raw,  undisciplined,  badly  fed,  and  worse  clothed  Ameri- 
cans, were  more  than  a  match  for  the  flower  of  Europe's  chivalry; 
what  was  to  be  expected  when  those  soldiers  should  become  con- 
fident from  success,  and  perfected  in  discipline  by  practi'ce  and 
experience? 

The  British  government  feared,  also,  that  Canada  might  revolt, 
and  make  common  cause  with  the  Colonies;  and  a  proposition 
was  made  in  Parliament,  to  send  commissioners  to  America,  with 
powers  to  grant  all  that  the  Colonies  asked  before  the  commence- 
ment of  hostilities,  in  case  they  would  lay  down  their  arms,  and 
return  to  their  allegiance.  This  measure  was  opposed  and  advo- 
cated with  great  warmth;  but  the  ministry  prevailed,  and  Governor 
Johnstone,  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  and  William  Eden,  were  appointed 
and  despatched  on  the  mission.  The  ministry  had  other  objects 
in  view,  in  case  the  commission  failed  in  their  first  object;  which 
were  to  make  efforts  to  corrupt,  bribe,  and  divide  the  people.  It 
was  too  late  to  be  successful  in  the  first,  and  we  shall  record  their 
efforts  in  the  latter. 

An  inferior  officer  had  deserted  from  the  detachment  under  the 
command  of  La  Fayette,  at  Baron  Hill;  and  had  communicated 
to  the  British  commander,  in  Philadelphia,  the  situation  and  re- 
sources of  the  American  band.  The  consequence  was,  a  deter- 
mination to  annihilate,  if  possible,  this  portion  of  the  heroic,  suf- 
fering followers  of  Washington. 

"Thank  God!"  exclaimed  a  beautiful  dark  haired  girl,  whose 
dazzling  eyes  were  fixed  with  intense  emotion  on  a  young  man 
who  stood  before  her,  "thank  God,  that  you,  Charles,  have  at  last 
been  prevailed  on  to  abandon  the  unrighteous  cause  of  the  rebels, 
and  return  to  your  allegiance  to  your  lawful  sovereign.  Never 
could  I  have  accepted  your  hand  on  any  other  terms." 


36  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  in  an  under  tone,  for  they  were 
in  the  midst  of  a  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  the  parlor  of 
one  of  the  most  splendid  buildings  that  then  graced  the  city  of 
Philadelphia.  Charles  Moreland  hung  his  head,  for  he  was  not 
satisfied  in  his  own  mind  of  the  correctness  of  the  step  which  he 
had  taken,  or  that  the  cause  he  had  forsaken  was  an  unrighteous 

T~-    #  ^  O 

one.  Far,  very  far,  was  his  conscience  from  approving  his  con- 
duct, and  the  word,  "traitor,"  rung  like  a  death-knell  in  his  ears. 
But  an  absorbing  passion  that  had  grown  with  him  from  childhood, 
and  now  amounted  to  adoration,  swayed  his  soul;  and  so  devoted 
was  he  to  the  fair  Charlotte  Summers;  so  completely  fascinated 
was  he  bj  her  resplendent  charms  of  person,  mind  and  manners, 
that  tie  would  have  sacrificed  his  life  for  her,  had  it  been  impossi- 
ble by  other  means  to  obtain  her  hand. 

"Cheer  up,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  "you  are  not  only  en- 
titled to  the  hand  of  my  daughter,  but  to  the  thanks  of  all  loyal, 
well  disposed  people." 

"Ay,"  added  Mrs.  Summers,  "and  you  will  receive  a  higher 
commission  in  the  British,  than  you  held  in  the  rebel  army.  Here 
is  Mr.  Mandeville,  just  arrived  from  England,  and  with  whom  we 
became  acquainted  by  accident,  who  can  inform  you  of  the  bril- 
liant offers  made  to  all  who  will  relinquish  the  rebel  cause." 

Charles,  who  had  hung  his  head  in  apparent  reflection,  now 
looked  up,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  person  spoken  of,  started, 
he  knew  not  why.  It  seemed  that  he  had  seen  that  face  before, 
yet  it  could  not  be,  as  he  had  just  arrived  from  England.  Still 
there  was  a  something,  a  je  ne  sais  quoi,  as'  the  French  call  it, 
which  caused  him  to  shudder,  whenever  he  caught  the  eye  of  Mr. 
Mandeville. 

"As  you  have  just  arrived  from  England,  Mr.  Mandeville,"  ob- 
served Mr.  Summers,  "  you  cannot  conceive  with  what  desperation 
these  rebels  fight.  Who  could  have  believed  that  General  Bur- 
goyne  and  his  whole  army  would  have  been  taken  by  a  shirtless, 
shoeless,  and  half-starved  set  of  ploughmen  ?" 

"Though  I  am  an  Englishman,"  returned  Mr.  Mandeville,  "I 
should  say  that  they  were  the  very  men  to  accomplish  such  a  tri- 
umph;  for  what  may  not  men  accomplish  who  will  endure  such 
privations,  and  who  are  fighting  for  their  own  homes,  their  firesides, 
their  wives  and  children,  to  say  nothing  of  the  freedom  of  their 
posterity." 

"  They  cannot  stand  the  contest  long,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  >f  and 
though  I  was  born  in  America,  I  ardently  hope  to  see  the  day 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  37 

when  Washington,  will  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  British,  for  whom 
already  large  rewards  have  been  offered." 

"  That  will  be  a  difficult  matter  to  accomplish,"  said  Mandeville- 
"  He  is  too  good  a  soldier,  and  too  wary  a  man." 

"Why,  Mr.  Mandeville,"  exclaimed  Summers,  smiling.  "did 
you  not  stand  before  an  Englishman,  I  should  take  you  to  be  a 
rebel." 

"  Rebel  or  not,  Sir,"  said  Mandeville,  "I  would  gladly  know 
the  mode  or  manner  in  which  that  hero  could  be  entrapped." 

"  Would  you  hesitate  at  being  concerned  in  taking  him,  Man- 
deville. I  have  a  scheme  on  foot " 

"  Not  a  moment,"  exclaimed  Mandeville  warrnly,.  at  ,the  same 
time  interrupting  him.  "Nothing  would  give  me  a  greater  plea- 
sure than  to  know  your  plan,  and  to  hold  a  villain  up  to  the  exe- 
cration of  mankind." 

"  Come  this  way,  my  dear  Mandeville,"  said  Summers,  and  they 
retired  to  another  room. 

"  Well,  Charles,  have  you  told  Sir  Henry  Clinton  all  about  that 
Frenchman's  situation  at  Baron  Hill  ?"  enquired  Mrs.  Summers. 

Charles,  at  these  words,  turned  aside  and  burst  into  tears.  The 
thought  of  the  price  he  had  paid  for  the  hand  of  Charlotte  Sum- 
mers, which  price  was  no  less  than  that  of  having  turned  traitor  to 
his  country,  harrowed  up  his  soul. 

"Fie,  Charles,  for  shame!"  continued  Mrs.  Summers.  "Do 
you  weep  that  you  have  obtained  the  fair  hand  that  you  so  ardently 
sought,  or  that  you  have  done  your  duty  by  returning  to  your  alle- 
giance to  your  lawful  sovereign  ?  Neither  of  these  should  be  a 
cause  of  grief.  Cheer  up,  for  you  will  yet  have  cause  to  rejoice 
that  you  have  done  your  duty." 

"  I  have  a  presentiment  of  evil,"  returned  Charles,  sorrowfully. 
"As  I  was  walking  alone,  I  encountered  a  strange  looking  being, 
who  represented  himself  as  a  soothsayer  or  fortune-teller,  and  cer- 
tainly no  man,  if  man  he  was,  ever  more  thoroughly  embodied  my 
ideas  of  what  a  wizard  should  be,  than  did  he.  I  threw  him  a 
piece  of  silver,  and  humorously  asked  him  to  tell  my  fortune.  My 
blood  even  now  runs  cold  at  the  recollection  of  his  solemn  man- 
ner, and  the  expression  of  his  face,  as  he  foretold  my  destiny." 

"And  what  was  it?"  enquired  Charlotte  and  her  mother  simul- 
taneously, both  laughing. 

"Ah!"  returned  Charles,  "I  laughed  myself  when  he  com- 
menced ;  but  he  seemed  so  earnest  and  so  emphatic,  that  though 

-:  *.   •. 


38  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

I  have  never  believed  in  supernatural  revelations,  a  cold  chill  crept 
over  me,  and  I  shuddered." 

"But  what  was  it,  Charley?"  asked  Charlotte,  playfully  imitating 
the  melancholy  manner  of  Charles. 

"I  shudder  to  think  of  it.  He  foretold  that  I  should  meet  the 
doom  of  a  traitor  to  my  country,  and  that  those,  by  whose  influ- 
ence I  was  actuated,  would " 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  the  matter?"  enquired  Mrs.  Summers. 
"  You  are  pale  and  trembling." 

"I  cannot  go  on,"  said  Charles;  "for  the  bare  recollection  of 
the  man  and  his  manner,  freezes  my  very  soul." 

"Well,  well, "'observed  Charlotte,  "  these  notions  will  pass  away 
when  you  are  a  great  officer  in  the  king's  army." 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  Mr.  Summers,  as  he  and  Mande- 
ville  entered  the  parlor. 

"  Oh !  nothing,"  returned  Charlotte,  gaily,  "  only  Charley  has 
been  frightened  at  the  goblin  story  of  a  wizard.'"' 

"The  wizard — right,"  said  Mr.  Mandeville,  apparently  musing, 
"  I  have  seen  this  same  wizard  of  the  forest,  and  never  were  the 
predictions  of  a  prophet  more  certainly  verified.  If  he  forbodes 
you  good  or  evil,  you  may  rely  upon  its  fulfilment ;  for  I  am  told 
he  is  deeply  skilled  in  astrology,  and  reads  events  in  the  stars,  as 
others  do  in  books." 

Charles  started,  and  the  company  were  silent. 

"  Well,"  continued  Mandeville,  "  we  must  part  for  the  present." 

"And  may  we  -meet  again  to  the  fulfilment  of  our  wishes,  and 
the  triumph  of  the  king,"  add^d  Summers,  as  he  advanced  and 
cordially  shook  him  by  Jhe  hand. 

"And  may  we  all  triumph,  as  well  as  the  cause  of  the  good 
king  George,"  said  Mrs.  Summers,  "  in  spite  of  the  wizard." 

"  Amen  !"  shouted  Charlotte,  with  a  hearty  laugh,  as  Manderille 
opened  the  door,  bowed,  and  descended  the  marble  steps. 

Summers  was  a  wealthy  man  before  the  commencement  of  the 
war,  but  during  the  war  he  had  amassed  much,  by  furnishing  the 
British  army  with  supplies,  and  other  acts  of  toryism.  He  owned  a 
farm  not  far  distant  from  Valley  Forge,  at  which  he  frequently  resided 
in  the  pleasant  season.  His  principles  were  known  to  few  persons  ; 
he  had,  like  Janus,  two  faces ;  one  for  the  Americans,  and  the  other 
for  the  British.  This  man,  on  account  of  his  wealth,  had  great 
influence  ;  and  Washington  had  long  doubted  his  fidelity,  though 
he  had  no  positive  proof  that  he  was  opposed  to  the  cause  of  the 
colonies.  Summers  had  three  daughters,  one  of  whom  had  eloped 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  39 

with  a  captain  in  the  American  army,  to  whom  she  had  been  mar- 
ried, in  spite  of  the  entreaties  of  her  parents.  This  was  Nora,  the 
eldest.  Charlotte  had  long  been  addressed  by  Charles  Moreland, 
but  not  being  so  self-willed  as  her  sister,  they  prevailed  upon  her  to 
make  the  apostacy  of  Charles  from  the  cause  of  freedom,  the  price 
of  her  hand.  This,  the  young  man  had  long  resisted,  for  he  had 
risen  from  the  ranks  by  his  own  bravery,  and  was  known  by  the 
appellation  of  the  "hero;"  and  his  pride,  to  say  nothing  of  his 
patriotism,  revolted  against  changing  that  honorable  title  for  that 
of  traitor.  But  though  he  withstood  all  other  temptations,  his 
heart  was  not  proof  against  the  fascinating  power  of  beauty;  and 
by  listening  to  the  seducing  language  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
lovely  Charlotte,  he,  in  an  unguarded  moment,  pledged  himself  to 
renounce  the  cause  of  freedom,  and  to  fly  from  the  American 
army.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Summers  both  joined  in  persuading  him  to 
take  that  step,  promising  him  preferment  in  the  British  army,  as 
well  as  a  rich  reward.  The  mind  of  Charles  was  not  yet  fully 
reconciled  to  the  sacrifice  he  was  about  to  make,  for  he  had  not 
irrevocably  passed  the  barrier  which  would  blast  him.  He  might 
yet.  if  he  would,  return. 

"  You  seem  dejected,  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Summers. 

"  I  know  not  what  to  do,"  replied  the  unhappy  young  man. 

"  Can  you  hesitate  a  moment  ?"  interrogated  Mrs.  Summers. 
"  Can  you  hesitate  a  moment,  when  fame,  fortune,  friends,  and  a 
beautiful  bride  await  you  ?" 

"I  am  fearful,"  returned  Charles,  "that  my  dereliction  from 
duty  will  bring  ruin  on  us  all.  In  the  perplexity  of  my  mind,  I 
know  not  what  course  to  pursue.  To  dejay,  even,  will  be  fatal. 
May  God  direct  me  what  to  do  for  the  best." 

"Poh!  poh!  Charles,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  "give  not  way  to  fool- 
ish fear.  What  harm  can  reach  you,  when  under  British  protec- 
tion?" 

"Indeed,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Summers,  "you  pay  but  a  poor  com- 
pliment to  Charlotte,  whose  heart  and  hand  you  protested  you 
prized  above  all  else  in  the  world.  And  now  you  hesitate  in  doing 
that  which  it  is  plainly  your  duty  to  do.  You  hesitate  in  laying 
down  the  arms  you  had  raised  in  rebellion  against  your  lawful 
king,  and  in  returning  to  your  duty;  when  honor,  wealth,  friends, 
and  the  hand  of  her  you  profess  to  adore,  are  to  be  your  reward!" 
"Well,  I  will  think  of  it  further,"  said  Charles,  as  he  took  up  his 
hat  and  left  the  room. 


40  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Oh!  what  a  fearful  fellow!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Summers.  "He 
starts  at  his  own  shadow.  But  we  shall  bring  him  to  the  sacrifice 
of  his  darling  hobby,  and  mushroom  reputation.  We'll  rob  the 
rebels  of  one  brave  fellow,  at  all  events;  and  Nora  shall  be  made 
to  repent  her  bargain,  and  her  rebel  notions,  before  a  great  while." 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Summers,  "her  ragamuffin  husband,  like 
the  rest  of  the  rebel  officers,  has  scarcely  enough  to  eat  and  cover 
his  own  nakedness,  without  having  a  wife  dependent  on  him." 

"You'll  see  her  sneaking  home  before  long,"  said  Charlotte. 

"She  need  not  come  here,"  said  Mr.  Summers.  "Let  her  find 
friends  among  those  whose  cause  she  has  espoused.  She  has  no 
reason  to  expect  sympathy  from  us." 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Summers;  "if  she  had  not  been  told 
beforehand  what  she  had  to  expect,  I  would  not  be  so  severe: 
but  when  I  remonstrated  with  her  respecting  her  marrying  that 
Captain  Danvers,  she  had  the  impudence  to  stand  up  for  the  rebel 
cause.  But  she'll  repent  her  rash,  runaway  adventure,  as  sure  as 
I'm  a  dutiful  subject  of  the  good  king  George." 

"Ay!"  rejoined  Mr.  Summers,  "how  willingly  will  she  sneak 
back  to  the  family,  when  George  Washington  shall  be  delivered 
into  the  hands  of  the  British  general,  and  the  upstart  rebels  shall 
have  been  put  down,  as  they  ought  to  be.  If  we  succeed  in  the 
undertaking,  which  I  expect  to  do,  we  shall  be  immortalized  in 
history,  and  celebrated  throughout  the  world.  Wealth  will  be 
showered  upon  us,  and  I  expect  nothing  else  but  that  we  shall  be 
among  the  nobility." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed,  Mrs.  Summers,  "but  won't  that  be  a 
glorious  triumph!  We  can  then  look  down  upon  those  who  now 
hate  us,  because  we  do  not  favor  the  rebel  cause." 

"Oh!  happy,  happy  day !"  exclaimed  Charlotte.  "How  I  would 
like  to  move  among  the  nobility,  and  be  styled  her  grace  and  her 
ladyship!" 

"Oh!  yes,"  shouted  Mrs.  Summers,  "won't  it  sound  grand  to 
be  called  his  grace,  the  Duke  of  Summers,  and  the  Duchess  of 
Summers;  or  Lord  and  Lady  Summers?" 

"And  the  Marquis  and  Marchioness  of  Moreland,"  screamed 
Charlotte,  "won't  that  sound  delightfully  grand?  Oh!  it  makes 
my  heart  leap  with  pleasure,  to  think  of  it." 

"You  must  remember,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  putting  his  finger 
on  his  lips,  "that  all  this  glory  will  depend  upon  your  keeping  the 
matter  a  profound  secret.  The  truth  is,  I  never  should  have  con- 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  41 

fided  it  to  women,  for  it  has  been  discovered  by  a  profound  natu- 
ralist, what  the  cause  is  that  a  woman  cannot  keep  a  secret." 

"What  is  it?"  enquired  both  at  once. 

"Why,  it  has  been  discovered,"  returned  Mr.  Summers,  "that 
Eve,  the  mother  of  all  mankind,  instead  of  being  made  out  of  one  of 
Adam's  ribs,  was  manufactured  out  of  the  greater  part  of  his  tongue." 

"How,  in  the  name  of  sense,  could  that  prevent  her  from  keep- 
ing a  secret?"  asked  the  beautiful  Charlotte,  laughing. 

"Because  she  has  an  irresistible  propensity  to  talk,"  returned 
Mr.  Summers;  "and  she  must  and  will  talk.  Nothing  gives  her 
greater  pleasure  than  to  have  something  to  tell." 

"You  have  a  very  contemptible  opinion  of  our  sex,  my  Lord 
Summers,"  observed  Mrs.  Summers,  with  a  dignified  courtesy. 
"Nothing  more  than  the  sex  deserves,"  said  Mr.  Summers. 

"It  shews,"  returned  Charlotte,  "the  generous,  confiding,  social 
disposition  of  woman.  If  she  enjoys  any  thing,  she  is  willing  to 
share  it  with  her  neighbor.  Unlike  the  selfish  disposition  of  man, 
she  wishes  others  to  know  what  she  knows;  to  feel  what  she  feels; 
and  to  enjoy  what  she  enjoys." 

"Yes,"  retorted  her  father,  "and  if  the  revelation  would  hang  a 
dozen  men,  she  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  telling  what  she 
hears.  But  I  hope  you  will  take  heed  and  be  silent.  Our  inten- 
tion is  now  known  but  to  ourselves  and  Mr.  Mandeville;  as  our 
company  left  when  he  entered.  If  our  intention  should  be  revealed, 
it  would  bring  eternal  ruin  to  us  all." 

"It  will  never  go  from  us,"  said  Mrs.  Summers.  $ 

"No,  never,"  chimed  in  Charlotte,  haughtily,  as^the  three  left 
the  parlor. 

Before  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  western  heavens,  it  was  whis- 
pered over  the  whole  city,  that  an  attempt  was  on  foot  to  betray 
General  Washington  into  the  hands  of  the  British,  with  a  thousand 
and  one  variations  and  embellishments;  though,  luckily,  no  parti- 
cular person  or  persons  were  designated  as  the  leaders  of  the  enter- 
prise. Mrs.  Summers  had  confided  the  profound  secret  never  to 
be  divulged,  to  her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Simpson,  in  whose  secrecy 
she  had  the  most  implicit  confidence;  and  Mrs.  Simpson  had  con- 
fided the  secret  to  her  confidential  friend,  on  whose  silence  she 
could  rely.  Mrs.  Pemberton  told  it  to  her  husband.  Charlotte, 
too,  had  told  it  to  the  Misses  Crumptons,  who  were  never  known 
to  divulge  a  secret.  The  story,  of  course,  lost  nothing  in  its  tra- 
vels; but  at  last  became  so  overburthened  with  embellishments, 
that  nobody  would  believe  it  in  any  form  whatever 
6 


42  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER     IV. 

"  Strange  things  occur  in  man's  eventful  life, 
That  baffle  the  most  cunning  and  the  wise ; 
And  such  I  shall  relate." — OLD  PLAT. 

CURING  the  Spring  of  1778,  the  British  General,  in  Phil- 
adelphia, sent  out  his  light  troops  to  scour  the  country, 
and  massacre  in  cold  blood  any  unfortunate  soldiers  who 
fell  into  their  hands.  At  the  bridges  of  Quinton  and 
Hancock,  a  number  of  American  soldiers  had  been  butchered  in 
cold  blood,  while  crying  for  quarter.  This  caused  La  Fayette  to 
be  ever  on  the  watch. 

On  a  beautiful  morning  in  May,  while  he  was  walking  along  the 
road  at  Baron  Hill,  listening  to  the  incessant  songs  of  birds  in  a 
neighboring  copse,  he  insensibly  fell  into  a  musing  mood  ;  and  the 
subject  on  which  his  mind  dwelt,  was  the  strange  predilections  of 
man. 

"  Strange,"  thought  he,  "  that  man,  with  all  his  reason,  and  all  his 
capabilities  for  appreciating  and  enjoying  the  beautiful  in  nature, 
should  mar  "it  by  the  horrors  of  war!  Strange  that  one  portion  of 
mankind  cannot,  or  will  not  suffer  another  portion  to  enjoy  life 
and  liberty,  without  bloodshed  to  obtain  the  privilege !  Here  is  a 
beautiful  country ;  a  perfect  Eden ;  where  peace  and  plenty  alone 
should  dwell;  but  owing  to  the  selfish  nature  and  vile  passions  of 
man,  it  is  turned  into  a  slaughter-house;  where  instead  of  the  hum 
of  peaceful  industry,  and  the  music  of  nature,  the  roar  of  cannon 
is  heard;  and  instead  of  the  husbandman  returning  to  his  happy 
home  to  be  cheered  by  the  smiles  of  his  wife  and  children,  he  re- 
turns to  see  midnight  glitter  with  the  blaze  of  his  burning  cottage, 
and  the  bleeding  bodies  of  his  children,  butchered  by  the  hands  of 
the  Indian,  or  no  less  savage  white  man.  Strange,  indeed,  are 
our  notions  of  murder!  If  one  man  kill  another  in  time  of  peace, 
he  is  execrated  as  a  foul  murderer;  while  he,  who  butchers  by  the 
wholesale,  is  immortalized  on  the  pages  of  history,  as  a  great  man 
— when  at  the  same  time,  too,  he  butchers  those  who  are  strug- 
gling for  the  rights  and  privileges  which  God  has  decreed  to  the 
whole  human  race.  When  will  men  learn  to  live  in  peace!" 

Thus  did  he  muse,  who  had  left  the  splendors  of  the  French 
court,  and  all  the  fascinations  of  Parisian  society ;  to  battle,  in  the 
wilds  of  America,  for  a  struggling  people,  whose  rights  had  been 
trampled  in  the  dust,  and  whose  cries  for  redress  were  unheeded. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  43 

Suddenly  lifting  his  head,  he  beheld  before  him  an  old  woman, 
carrying  a  basket  in  one  hand,  and  a  staff  in  the  other.  She  had 
on  a  short  gown  and  petticoat,  and  the  enormous  stays  worn  at 
that  time.  A  jib  bonnet,  of  faded  calico,  covered  her  head,  and 
almost  concealed  her  face.  La  Fayette  started  with  surprise,  so 
sudden  and  unexpected  was  the  meeting. 

"Good  morning,  General,"  said  the  old  woman,  familiarly,  "I 
am  happy  to  meet  you  again,  and  alone,  too." 

"I  know  not  that  we  have  ever  met  before,"  returned  La  Fay- 
ette, turning  upon  her  a  scrutinizing  gaze. 

"It  matters  not,  General,  as  respects  that  matter.  I  have  come 
to  ascertain  something  more  important." 

"And  pray  what  may  that  be?" 

"I  come  to  know  whether  you  are  ready  to  meet  the  enerAy?" 

"What  enemy,  Madam,  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  your  enemy  in  Philadelphia — the  British,  sir." 

"There  is  no  prospect  of  an  attack  from  that  quarter  at  present." 

"You  are  mistaken." 

"In  what  manner?" 

"Has  not  an  officer  deserted  from  your  command?" 

"  He  has — Charles  Moreland." 

"The  same,  sir;  and  he  has  communicated  to  the  British  Gen- 
eral some  particulars  which,  I  expect,  will  induce  an  attack.  I 
come,  therefore,  to  warn  you  to  be  in  readiness  to  receive  them." 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  intelligence,"  said  La  Fayette,  at  the  same 
time  offering  some  pieces  of  silver. 

"Nay,  sir,  I  ask,  and  can  receive,  no  reward." 

La  Fayette  stood  for  a  moment  in  wonder.  He  had  supposed 
that  the  object  of  the  old  woman,  was  to  obtain  a  reward,  as  her 
tattered  clothes  bespoke  her  poverty.  From  this  supposition,  he 
had  placed  but  little  confidence  in  her  story;  but  now  he  was  led 
to  appreciate  her  motive.  His  curiosity  was  excited. 

"Did  you  say  we  had  met  before?"  enquired  La  Fayette. 

"Ay,  at  Valley  Forge — in  the  forest." 

"Good  heavens!  can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  the  same  un- 
known, that  Washington  and  myself  encountered  in  the  woods?" 

"The  same,  General.  By  my  disguise  as  a  fortune-teller,  I  am 
enabled  to  wander  where  I  could  not  otherwise  go ;  and  to  obtain 
knowledge,  that  I  could  not  otherwise  acquire." 

"I  should  never  have  recognized  you,"  replied  La  Fayette,  tak- 
ing the  mysterious  man  by  the  hand.  "You  must  be  some  extra- 
ordinary being." 


44  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"To  my  art  in  disguising  myself  I  am  indebted  for  my  safety; 
for  I  have  been  in  the  presence  of,  and  conversed  with  those,  who, 
had  they  known  me,  would  have  rejoiced  to  sacrifice  me." 

"May  God  protect  you!" 

"Farewell,"  said  the  mysterious  man,  grasping  the  hand  of  La 
Fayette,  "and  remember  to  say  nothing  of  our  interview,  or  of  my 
disguise.  I  should  not  have  made  myself  known,  had  I  not  wished 
to  impress  it  upon  your  mind,  that  there  is  danger  of  an  attack." 

"You  may  rely  upon  my  secrecy — farewell,"  said  La  Fayette, 
who  stood  some  time  gazing  at  the  strange  being,  as  he  trudged 
along  bending  on  his  staff,  until  lost  in  the  shades  of  the  wood- 
land. A  thousand  conjectures  crossed  the  mind  of  La  Fayette, 
with  regard  to  the  real  character  of  that  man;  but  conjecture 
ended  in  conjecture. 

La  Fayette  now  held  his  force  in  readiness,  and  he  did  not 
wait  long  for  the  whole  British  army  came  out  of  Philadelphia, 
and  a  detachment  of  five  thousand  men,  under  General  Grant, 
was  ordered  to  surprise,  and  cut  to  pieces,  the  forces  under  the 
command  of  La  Fayette.  Silently  and  stealthily  along  the  road 
to  Baron  Hill,  moved  the  British,  under  Grant,  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  taking  the  Americans  by  surprise ;  but,  to  their  utter 
astonishment,  they  found  them  waiting  their  approach.  Now 
sounded  the  clangor  of  trumpets,  and  the  roll  of  drums,  as  the  two 
forces  drew  up  in  battle  array.  A  desperate  conflict  ensued. 
The  British  made  a  determined  onslaught,  and  for  a  time  the 
battle  waxed  hot.  Grant  urged  on  his  men,  confident  of  victory ; 
for  every  thing  was  now  in  his  favor.  The  Americans  were 
doubtful;  but  at  length  La  Fayette,  with  consummate  skill  and  bra- 
very, made  a  sudden  and  unexpected  move,  aud  turned  the  tide 
of  war.  The  British  began  to  waver  and  give  way,  and  finally 
returned  to  Philadelphia;  while  La  Fayette,  with  honor,  removed 
to  Valley  Forge,  to  receive  the  congratulations  of  Washington. 
With  two  thousand  suffering  men,  he  stood  triumphantly  before 
five  thousand  choice  British  soldiers. 

Several  officers  that  day  performed  prodigies  of  valor,  and  dis- 
tinguished themselves;  among  whom  was  Captain  Danvers,  who, 
at  the  close  of  the  engagement,  was  severely  wounded.  Nora, 
the  devoted  wife  of  Danyers,  and  daughter  of  Mr.  Summers,  had 
been  since  her  marriage,  living  in  the  family  of  a  farmer;  but  she 
now  flew  to  the  camp,  at  Valley  Forge,  to  attend  her  disabled 
husband,  perhaps  to  witness  his  death.  He  was  now  all  in  all  to 
her;  the  only  friend  she  had  in  the  world,  for  her  parents,  and 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  45 

indeed  the  whole  family,  were  bitterly  incensed  against  her,  for 
having  eloped  with  a  rebel.  People  of  the  present  day,  can 
have  no  conception  of  the  bitter  hatred  that  then  existed  between 
the  whigs  and  tories.  If  her  husband  should  die,  she  saw  nothing 
but  servitude  and  toil  before  her;  for  though  her  father  was  rolling 
in  wealth,  she  well  knew  that  he  would  hold  her  sin  of  marrying 
a  whig,  unpardonable,  and  that  she  could  never  return  home  as  a 
daughter.  Her  fate  was  sealed  in  that  quarter,  and  bitterly  did 
she  deplore  the  wounded  condition  of  her  husband.  All  day,  and 
through  the  long  watches  of  the  night,  did  she  sit  in  the  hospital, 
administering  to  his  wants  and  watching  for  the  favorable  symp- 
tom, by  which  she  could  augur  his  recovery. 

"Oh!  Doctor,"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  mournful  voice,  as  the 
surgeon  entered,  "tell  me  candidly,  is  there  any  hope." 

''He  may  recover;  but  at  present  the  chances  are  against  him. 
He  has  lost  so  much  blood,  that  the  energies  of  nature  are  de- 
stroyed. 

"Tell  me,  in  one  word,"  cried  the  agonized  wife,  foreboding 
the  worst  from  the  purport  of  his  words,  "must  he  die?" 

"He  will  die  in  less  than  three  days." 

The  unhappy  wife  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  grief,  and  a  gush  of 
tears  seemed  to  unburthen  her  overloaded  heart.  Her  husband 
slowly  opened  his  eyes,  and,  fixing  them  upon  his  weeping  wife, 
said,  with  deep  emotion: 

"Do  not  weep,  Nora;  this  is  the  fate  of  war,  and  if  I  die,  I  die 
nobly  in  the  cause  of  my  country." 

"  I  thought  he  was  delirious,"  said  the  surgeon.  "Dry  up  your 
tears;  a  change  has  taken  place,  and  he  will  recover." 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  exclaimed  Nora,  elevating  her  eyes,  and 
clasping  her  hands  in  an  attitude  of  devotion.  "Then  I  shall 
have  one  friend  remaining  this  side  the  grave." 

With  that  deep  devotion  of  woman  which  knows  no  change, 
whether  it  be  exhibited  in  the  halls  of  grandeur  and  wealth,  or  in 
the  hut  of  the  humble  poor,  she  watched  beside — his  bed  I  was 
going  to  say — but  alas !  it  was  only  an  apology  for  one ;  for  as 
before  stated,  even  straw  could  be  obtained  in  only  small  quanti- 
ties. She  watched  beside  his  pallet,  day  and  night,  until  her 
blooming  and  beautiful  cheek  began  to  wear  the  tint  of  the  lily. 
Day  and  night  did  Nora  faithfully  administer  medicine  to  her 
wounded  husband,  and  endeavor  to  comfort  him  by  cheerfully 
conversing  with  him,  and  reading  to  him  passages  from  such 
books  as  she  bad  brought  with  her. 


46  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Och!  noo,  and  its  a  mighty  great  blessin  till  hev  a  lovin  wife," 
exclaimed  a  fine  looking  young  Irishman,  who  had  distinguished 
himself  at  the  battle  of  Brandywine,  "  till  sit  by  ye  the  day,  an  rade, 
an  be  spaking  the  word  o'  comfort,  whin  ye  hev  a  British  ball  in 
ye'er  body.  Och!  but  its  meself  that  'ud  be  afther  hevin  that  same 
meself." 

"Hoot,  mon,  awa'"  said  a  wounded  Scotsman,  "ye  winna 
think  sic  a  thing,  as  to  hae  the  puirguid  lassie  yoursel'?  I  wadna 
think  o'  sic  a  thing,  Tarn." 

"Hoot,  mon,  yoursel',"  returned  the  Irishman,  imitating  him, 
"ye  don't  understand  me  meaning  at  all  at  all.  I  didn't  be  afther 
sayin  I'd  hev  the  ledy  meself.  I  intended  till  mane  that  I'd  be 
afther  havin  one  jist  like  herself.  There's  a  mighty  great  differ 
betwaine  the  two,  though  they're  jist  alike." 

"True,"  said  the  Scot,  "I  dinna  ken  the  meaning  o't;  but  I 
spak  out,  and  o'  guid  advisement  comes  nae  ill.  I  dinna  care  at 
a',  for  I  never  felt  the  luver's  joy;  but  I  maun  think  the  guid  dame 
has  nae  love  to  spare  ye." 

"Och  ye  spalpeen,"  exclaimed  young  Teddy,  somewhat  nettled, 
"the  back  iv  me  hand  till  ye;  an  sure  I  niver  meant  to  mane  that 
I'd  begrudge  another  mon's  wife,  an  its  meself  'ud  say  ye'er  a 
foolish  felly,  ye  are." 

"  Gae  mind  yer  business,  Tam.  I  would  make  ye  tak  that  back, 
but  I  hae  twa  wounds  already." 

"I'll  fight  ye  wid  a  shelalah  on  the  flure;  an  ye  don't  hould  yer 
yer  tongue,  I'll  put  me  fut  in  yer  face." 

The  altercation  between  the  two  soldiers,  Teddy  O'RafFerty,  and 
Jessy  Mac  Donald,  waxed  warmer  and  warmer;  and  a  pitched 
battle  would  have  been  the  consequence,  had  not  an  officer  en- 
tered the  hospital,  and  restored  peace,  by  a  threat  of  having  them 
marched  off  to  the  guard-house  and  punished. 

If  there  is  a  situation  in  life,  in  which  woman  becomes  angelic, 
it  is  that  in  which  she  appears  at  the  bedside  of  her  sick  and  suf- 
fering husband;  and  if  there  is  a  scene  on  earth,  which  the  angels 
of  heaven  delight  to  witness,  it  is  that  wherein,  entirely  forgetful 
of  herself,  she  devotes  herself  to  the  blessed  task  of  alleviating  the 
miseries  of  another.  If  Nora  was  beautiful  before,  thrice  beau- 
tiful did  she  now  appear,  as  she  sat  breathing  hope  into  the  de- 
sponding heart  of  her  wounded  husband.  The  cynic  may  sneer 
at  the  assertion,  that  when  woman  loves,  she  loves  forever;  and 
he  may  say  with  Shakspeare, 

"Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman." 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  47 

but  it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  in  her  devotion  she  far  outstrips 
man,  and,  with  all  her  delicacy,  she  patiently  endures  for  him  she 
loves,  what  man  would  quail  at,  and  sink  under.  He  would  have 
her,  as  Caesar  wished  his  wife  to  be,  not  only  virtuous,  but  above 
suspicion;  but  no  sooner  does  a  stain  darken  her  reputation,  than 
he  forsakes  her — he  throws  her  from  his  bosom  as  a  worthless 
weed.  Not  so  with  woman.  Though  a  man  may  become  steeped 
in  crime,  and  be  forsaken,  nay  be  execrated  by  the  world;  the 
wife  of  his  bosom,  she  who  forsook  a  happy  home  for  him,  will 
follow  him  through  good  and  evil  report — she  will  follow  him  to 
the  dark  and  dismal  dungeon,  and  embrace  him  in  his  chains — 
nay,  she  will  cling  to,  and  plead  for  him,  as  long  as  a  ray  of  hope 
illumes  her  mind. 

Nora  Summers  was  indeed  an  amiable,  lovely,  as  well  as  a 
beautiful  creature.  She  met  Captain  Danvers  by  accident,  and  so 
congenial  were  their  minds,  that  she  soon  loved  him,  and  resolved 
to  marry  him,  notwithstanding  the  bitter  opposition  she  met  from 
her  parents,  on  account  of  Danvers  being  a  devoted  whig,  he 
having  eagerly  espoused  the  cause  of  freedom  as  soon  as  hostili- 
ties commenced.  Though  confined  to  her  room,  she,  through  the 
assistance  of  an  old  domestic,  made  her  escape  at  night,  and  fled 
with  Captain  Danvers  to  Germantown,  where  they  were  married. 

Nora  was  as  different  from  the  gay,  gaudy,  thoughtless  Char- 
lotte, as  though  they  had  not  been  related.  In  their  beauty  alone 
was  there  a  resemblance.  Nora  was  all  gentleness  and  affection ; 
Charlotte  was  haughty,  passionate  and  hollow-hearted.  Nora  had 
but  one  object  in  forming  a  matrimonial  alliance,  which  was  love, 
based  upon  her  high  respect  for  his  character;  while  interested 
motives  swayed  the  soul  of  Charlotte.  Nora  was  faithfully  de- 
voted ;  Charlotte  was  fickle  and  foolish. 


48  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

CHAPTER   V. 

"Things  ill  begun,  strengthen  themselves  in  ill." — SHAKSPEARE. 

NGLAND,  proud,  imperious  England,  that  had  listened 
too  long  to  the  tyrannical  measures  of  Lord  North 
and  his  coadjutors,  was  now  very  willing  to  accede  to 
the  former  wishes  of  the  Colonies,  and  to  grant  what 
they  had  so  long  plead  for  in  vain.  She  found  that  France,  her 
ancient  powerful  enemy  and  antagonist,  had  become  the  ally  of 
suffering,  down-trodden  America,  and  Carlisle,  Eden  and  John- 
stone  were  despatched,  to  offer  concessions;  but  her  magnanimity 
was  shown  too  late,  for  Congress  now  refused  to  negotiate  on  any 
other  terms  than  the  unconditional  recognition  of  their  indepen- 
dence, and  the  withdrawal  by  England  of  all  her  forces. 

The  commissioners,  finding  that  there  was  no  prospect  of  suc- 
cess in  that  quarter,  fell  upon  the  expedient  of  flooding  the 
country  with  writings,  in  which  Congress  was  denounced  as.  de- 
manding from  the  mother  country  what  was  unjust  and  injurious, 
and  representing  the  alliance  with  France  as  the  offspring  of 
meanness,  while  the  generosity  and  forbearance  of  Britain  were 
extolled  in  the  highest  strains  of  panegyric. 

Johnstone,  one  of  the  commissioners,  had  at  an  antecedent 
period,  resided  in  the  Colonies;  and  subsequently,  as  a  member  of 
Parliament,  he  had  espoused  and  vindicated  the  cause  of  the 
whigs.  Cloaked  in  the  influence  which  these  circumstances  gave 
him,  he  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  the  ignoble  purpose  of  sowing 
discord,  and  of  corrupting  the  minds  of  the  patriotic  by  false  rep- 
resentations. He  was  an  adroit  intriguer.  He  had  it  in  his  power 
to  approach  the  most  influential  patriots,  and  while  he  flattered 
them  for  their  talents  and  conduct,  he  cunningly  insinuated,  that 
if  the  rebellion  could  be  suppressed,  and  the  authority  of  the 
good  king  George  again  established,  that  the  names  of  those  who 
aided  in  effecting  it,  would  be  given  to  immortality,  and  their  ser- 
vices rewarded  by  untold  wealth,  titles  and  honors.  He  and  his 
compeers  did  not  hesitate  at  times  to  make  direct  offers  of  bribery. 
A  number  of  distinguished  men  were  tried  by  Johnstone  without 
success,  among  whom  was  General  Reed,  whose  answer  has  be- 
come famous  in  history.  A  lady  was  employed  to  meet  the 
General  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Summers,  while  residing  at  his 
country-seat;  where  a  party  of  both  sexes  had  been  assembled  as 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  49 

if  from  mere  sociability,  but  in  reality,  for  the  purpose — the  base 
purpose,  of  attempting  to  bribe  those  patriotic  men,  on  whom 
hung  the  destinies  of  America  in  the  hour  of  her  sore  trial. 

The  summer  country-seat  of  Mr.  Summers  was  a  beautiful 
retreat  from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  a  city,  though  Philadelphia  was 
then  but  a  village,  compared  to  what  she  has  become  under  the 
blessed  influence  of  those  privileges  for  which  the  whigs  were 
then  contending.  It  was  situated  a  few  miles  from  Valley  Forge, 
in  the  midst  of  a  rolling  and  romantic  country,  and  was  surrounded 
by  almost  interminable  woodlands  in  the  distance,  rising  in  the 
manner  of  an  amphitheatre,  in  true  majesty  and  grandeur.  The 
house,  built  somewhat  after  the  old  Dutch  fashion,  was  seated  on 
an  eminence  overlooking  the  valleys  around,  but  far  below  the 
sublime  and  solitary  waste  of  woodland  in  the  east  and  north. 
From  the  balcony  a  splendid  view  could  be  had  of  hill  piled  on 
hill,  till  the  dark  green  woods  seemed  to  bathe  their  heads  in 
heaven.  A  park  of  old  oaks  in  the  rear  of  the  house  was  appro- 
priated to  the  use  of  deer,  while  in  front  of  the  building  was  a 
beautiful  garden,  filled  with  all  manner  of  flowers  from  every  clime. 
The  uncle  of  Mrs.  Summers  being  a  sea-captain,  brought  from 
distant  shores  every  thing  that  was  rare.  This  garden  was  the 
work,  principally,  of  poor  Nora,  who  was  sympathising  with  her 
wounded  husband  in  the  hospital  at  Valley  Forge,  and  ministering 
to  his  wants  as  far  as  lay  in  her  power.  Many  a  happy  moment 
had  she  passed  in  its  blooming  bowers,  planted  by  her  own  fair 
hands;  and  it  was  here  that  she  first  listened  to  the  protestations 
of  love  breathed  at  her  feet,  by  moonlight,  by  him  who  won  her 
heart,  and  married  her. 

In  the  large  hall  were  assembled  the  gay,  the  grand,  the  gifted, 
the  beautiful  and  the  brave.  Merrily  passed  the  hours,  and  Mr. 
Summers  was  peculiarly  gay  and  joyous,  as  he  had  ardent  hopes 
of  making,  or  having  made,  more  than  one  convert  to  the  royal 
cause.  Johnstone  had  made  him  brilliant  promises,  in  the  name 
of  the  king,  and  he  was  secretly  using  all  the  influence  he  had,  in 
undermining,  where  be  could  not  at  once  corrupt,  the  principles  of 
patriotic  men. 

"What  do  you  think,  General,  of  the  cause  of  freedom?"  inter- 
rogated Madame  Vandore,  as  she  strolled  along  one  of  the  wind- 
ing walks  of  the  garden.  "Can  it  succeed,  think  you?" 

"As  sure  as  there's  a  God  in  Heaven,"  returned  General  Reed, 
laying  deep  emphasis  on  his  words. 


50  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"I  hope  it  may,"  said  the  lady,  anxiously  looking  in  his  face, 
"but  I  have  my  fears — indeed  I  have  had  several  fearful  omens  in 
dreams  and  otherwise,  that  make  me  tremble  for  the  result;  and  I 
have  heard  that  the  wizard,  who  roams  the  forest,  and  who  is  so 
deeply  skilled  in  astrology,  has  foretold  the  speedy  fall  of  our  high 

built  hopes " 

"I  neither  put  faith  in  dreams  nor  astrology,"  bluffly  answered 
the  General,  "  and  if  all  the  wizards  in  Christendom  were  to  tell 
me  so,  I  would  not  believe  them." 

"Oh!  it  will  be  a  sad  affair,"  continued  the  lady,  affecting  not 
to  have  paid  any  attention  to  what  he  said,  "  and  an  awful  rec- 
koning with  the  Americans.  Better  had  they  never  been  born, 
than  to  have  taken  up  arms  against  the  mother  country.  I  tremble 
when  I  think  of  the  awful  consequences." 

"It  will  only  be  the  present  of  a  hemp  collar  or  cravat,"  said 
the  General  in  a  jocular  manner,  "and  we  shall  not  be  the  first 
who  have  been  elevated  for  having  loved  liberty." 

"Ah!  General,  but  think  of  the  anguish  such  a  catastrophe 
would  carry  to  the  bosoms  of  mourning  mothers,  weeping  wives, 
and  fatherless  children;  to  say  nothing  of  the  odium,  the  deep 
disgrace,  that  <  " 

"No,  Madam,  you  should  call  it  glory,"  exclaimed  the  General 
warmly,  at  the  same  time  interrupting  her.  "I  should  consider 
it  glory  to  hang  for  the  sacred  cause  of  liberty,  and  as  to  mourning 
mothers,  wives  and  orphans,  they  must  take  the  fate  that  awaits 
them,  as  we  shall." 

Madam  Vandore  for  a  moment  was  silent.  The  firmness  with 
which  General  Reed  met  her  suggestions,  baffled  her;  but  after 
a  pause,  in  which  she  seemed  absorbed  in  reflection,  she  again 
addressed  him.  His  stern  virtue  was  more  antagonistic  than  she 
expected. 

"If  we  should  fail,"  said  she,  laying  great  stress  upon  the  word 
we,  "it  will  be  awful  indeed!  We  have  disregarded  the  repeated 
admonitions  of  the  mother  country  to  desist;  and  if  we  are  forced 
to  lay  down  the  weapons  of  war,  which  I  religiously  believe  will 
be  the  case,  death  and  distraction  will  fill  the  land.  The  cry  of 
mourning  will  be  in  every  habitation,  and  it  will  cost  the  lives  of 
most  of  our  great,  talented,  and  distinguished  men." 

"And  what  would  you  do,  madam,  in  such  a  case?" 

"Why,  sir,  if  I  were  an  American  General,  I  would  lay  down 
my  arms,  and  accept,  not  only  mercy,  but  brilliant  reward " 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  51 

"God  of  heaven!"  exclaimed  the  General,  "and  would  you 
turn  traitor  to  your  country,  to  your  home,  to  your  God?  Then, 
indeed,  would  that  American  General  deserve  hanging." 

"  Had  you  rather  suffer  ignominious  death,  and  send  sorrow  to 
every  bosom  in  which  your  blood  runs,  than  to  return  peaceably  to 
your  allegiance,  blessed  with  wealth,  honor " 

"But  what  surety  is  there  of  that,"  enquired  the  General,  again 
interrupting  her,  and  suddenly  forming  the  resolution  of  seeing  to 
what  length  she  would  go,  being  now  satisfied  that  she  was  of  the 
tory  school,  djed  in  the  wool.  "What  surety,  madam,  has  a 
General  of  reward,  who  should  agree  to  assist  in  bringing  the 
colonies  to  subjection?" 

At  these  words  the  basilisk  eye  of  Madam  Vandore  gleamed 
with  delight,  for  she  was  now  sure  that  he  was  about  to  bite  at  the 
hook  baited  with  gold. 

"Why,  sir,  he  has  the  solemn  assurance  of  the  British  govern- 
ment, that  if  he  forsake  the  rebel  cause,  and  assist  in  restoring  the 
colonies  to  their  former  allegiance,  he  will  be  munificently  re- 
warded." 

"But  how  do  you  know  this  to  be  true?  Pardon  me,  madam, 
but  if  I  accept  the  terms,  I  wish  to  know  the  certainty." 

."Well,  sir,  England  has  sent  three  commissioners,  Carlisle, 
Eden,  and  Johnstone,  the  latter  of  whom  assured  me  that  if  any 
General  would  forsake  the  rebel  cause,  and  assist  in  putting  down 
the  rebels,  he  will  be  rewarded,  not  only  with  showers  of  gold,  but 
with  honors  and  a  title." 

"That  is  very  tempting,"  said  the  General,  affecting  a  serious 
countenance. 

"General  Reed,  I  am  empowered  to  make  you  a  confidential 
offer,  if  you  will  seriously  listen  to  it;  and  the  terms  will  lift  you 
above  the  frowns  of  the  world." 

"I  am  anxious,  madam,  to  know  it." 

"  It  is  this,"  returned  Madam  Vandore,  delighted  with  the  con- 
quest which  she  supposed  she  had  made.  "If  you  renounce  the 
fallacious  cause  of  freedom,  and  do  all  in  your  power  to  put  down 
the  rebels,  your  immediate  reward  will  be  ten  thousand  pounds, 
and  any  office  in  the  colonies  withiri  the  king's  gift." 

"It  is  folly  to  trifle  any  longer,"  returned  General  Reed,  "I  AM 
NOT  WORTH  PURCHASING;  BUT  SUCH  AS  I  AM,  THE  KING  OF  ENG- 
LAND IS  NOT  RICH  ENOUGH  TO  BUY  ME." 

Mrs.  Vandore  now  discovered  that  she  had  encountered  the 
wrong  man — a  man  of  Roman  virtue,  to  whom  gold  had  no  charm, 


52  WRITINGS    OP  THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

when  placed  in  the  scale  against  his  patriotism.  Without  saying 
another  word  on  the  subject,  they  turned  their  footsteps  towards 
the  house,  where  they  were  met  by  the  tory  Summers,  who  was 
full  of  hope  that  she  had  been  successful  in  her  infamous  proposal, 
but  he  discovered,  to  his  secret  mortification,  that  General  Reed 
was  not  to  be  bought. 

Mirth  and  music  were  resounding  through  the  buildings,  and  the 
gay  dancers  were  realizing  the  poetry  of  motion,  while  the  tories 
were  secretly  endeavoring  to  win  over  the  friends  of  freedom. 
Summers  was  laying  a  deep  scheme  to  undermine  the  virtue  of 
some  of  his  guests,  and  it  was  for  this  purpose  that  he  gave  a 
series  of  splendid  parties,  to  which  the  French  and  American 
officers  were  invited. 

While  joy  and  hilarity  pervaded  the  brilliant  assemblage  of  revo- 
lutionary belles  and  beaux;  while  the  laugh  of  the  dark  eyed 
beauties,  who  have  long  sinced  passed  away,  rung  through  the 
hall  and  the  gay  coquettes  were  trifling  with  their  enamored  atten- 
dants, there  was  one  without  who  was  slowly  approaching  the 
mirthful  scene,  but  far  other  feelings  than  those  of  joy  pervaded 
her  heart.  She  gazed  through  the  window  into  the  room,  where 
every  face  was  clad  in  smiles — into  the  room,  where  she  had  spent 
some  of  the  happiest  days  of  her  life.  It  was  the  unhappy  Nora. 
As  she  gazed  on  the  gay  forms  and  happy  faces,  as  they  wheeled 
in  the  dance,  her  bosom  heaved,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she 
sat  down  on  a  bench  beneath  the  shadow  of  an  oak,  under  which 
she  had  played  with  her  sisters  in  childhood,  and  wept  long  and 
bitterly.  The  memory  of  happier  days  arose  before  her,  and  when 
she  thought  of  her  poor  husband,  who  was  suffering  from  want,  as 
well  as  wounds,  she  could  not  restrain  her  grief  sufficiently  to  enter. 

"A  'oman,  massa,  in  de  yard,  what  want  to  speak  to  ye,"  said 
a  coxcomb  of  a  negro  servant  in  livery,  as  he  entered  the  hall. 

"Who  is  she?"  enquired  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Summers. 

"  Can't  tell  dat,  massa,  for  she's  a  crying  so  dat  de  poor  gal  cant 
speak.  She  hab  on  an  ole  bonnet  and  linsey-woolsey  frock,  and 
hardly  got  no  shoes  on  de  feet." 

"Can  it  be  Nora  that's  come  here  to  pester  us  at  such  a  time  as 
this?"  enquired  Mrs.  Summers,  with  a  sour  look. 

"Taint  Miss  Nora,  don't  tink,  Massa,  bowsumdever  I  see." 

The  negro,  who  possessed  a  better  heart  than  his  master  or  mis- 
tress, was  going  to  enquire,  when  Mrs.  Summers  whispered: 

"Tell  the  good  for  nothing  trollope,  to  clear  out — she  has  no 
business  here  at  such  a  time,  be  she  who  she  may." 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  53 

The  unhappy  Nora  was  waiting  anxiously  for  an  interview  with 
her  parents,  when  the  negro  ordered  her  away. 

"Oh  God!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  heart-broken  sigh,  "can  I  not 
then  see  my  parents,  whom  I  have  ever  loved  so  dearly,  and  whose 
injunctions  I  have  never  transgressed  but  once!" 

"Dar,  den,"  said  the  servant,  visibly  affected  by  her  grief,  "I  gib 
ye  three  cents,  go  away  now,  de  great  folks  am  not  to  be  sturbed." 

This  was  more  than  Nora  could  bear,  and  she  sobbed  so  loudly 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Summers  went  out,  highly  incensed  at  what 
they  called  her  impudence. 

"What  do  you  want  here,  girl?"  interrogated  Mrs.  Summers, 
"that  you  are  yelling  like  a  screech  owl." 

"Oh!  my  dear  mother,  do  you  not  know  your  poor  Nora?" 

"We  don't  wish  to  know  you,"  observed  Mr.  Summers;  "but 
what  brings  you  here  at  such  an  unseasonable  time?" 

"Oh!  my  dear  father,  pardon  me  for  the  intrusion?  Nothing 
but  necessity — the  keenest  pangs  of " 

"Oho!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Summers,  with  a  frowning  look,  "you 
had  better  go  to  your  rebel  friends  for  assistance,  as  none  but  an 
upstart  rebel  captain  could  satisfy  you  for  a  husband.  I  said  you'd 
be  sneaking  home  when  pinched  with  want,  and  now,  madame 
trollope,  you'd  better  be  off,  or  Mingo  shall  take  you  off.''  'x,';  ; 

Nora  turned  upon  her  mother  her  imploring  eyes,  filled  with 
tears,  but  met  no  sympathy;  and  as  she  fell  upon  her  knees  before 
them,  her  father  coldly  addressed  her — 

"  Come,  come,  none  of  your  play  actress  here !  You  have  come 
to  the  wrong  place  to  beg.  Had  you  not  meanly  stolen  off  with 
that  ragamuffin  captain,  you  need  not  have  been  a  beggar." 

"But,  dear  parents,  I  have  never  transgressed  but  once " 

"And  that  was  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Summers,  with  a  haughty 
air.  "You  had  better  be  moving,  for  we  have  nothing  to  give 
beggars,  and  we  will  not  support  rebels  and  their  brats." 

"For  mercy's  sake,  forgive  an  unhappy  daughter,  if  you  will  not 
listen  to  her  tale  of  woe,"  exclaimed  the  weeping  Nora,  as  she 
endeavored  to  take  the  hand  of  her  mother. 

"We  have  no  time  for  either;"  observed  Mrs,  Summers,  "you 
should  have  thought  of  this  before  you  eloped  with  your  pretty 
jewel  of  a  rebel  captain.  Not  a  cent  of  our's  shall  go  to  minister 
comfort  to  him,  if  he  dies,  and  you  need  not  expect  it." 

"To  cut  the  matter  short,"  added  Mr.  Summers,  "you  must 
leave  here  immediately.  I  will  not  have  my  respectable  friends 
interrupted  in  their  enjoyment  by  such  characters  as  you  are." 


54 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


As  he  said  this,  he  took  her  by  the  arm  to  lead  her  away,  when 
she  uttered  a  soul-piercing  shriek,  which  rung  through  the  build- 
ing, and  clung  convulsively  to  his  arm. 

"Take  the  woman  away,  Mingo,"  said  Summers,  as  a  number 
of  the  guests  came  running  from  the  hall,  to  ascertain  what  was 
the  matter. 

"Who  is  she?  What  is  the  matter  with  her?"  enquired  several, 
as  Mingo  was  leading  the  weeping  Nora  away. 

"0!  nothing  but  a  beggar  woman,"  carelessly  observed  Mrs. 
Summers,  "who  is  in  the  habit  of  pestering  us  at  such  times  as 
this." 

"Oh!  forgive  me,  my  father — my  mother,"  exclaimed  Nora. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Mr.  Summers,  noticing  the  expression  of 
curiosity  in  the  countenances  of  the  guests  at  hearing  her  call  him 
father;  "she's  somewhat  deranged,  and  imagines  that  we  are  her 
parents." 

"Yes,  poor  creature,"  added  Mrs.  Summers,  "I  pity  her;  but 
in  her  crazy  moments  she  is  so  troublesome  that  we  have  to  drive 
her  away,  though  my  heart  aches  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Summers  caught  the  eye  of  his  wife,  asTnuch  as  to  tell  her 
that  she  was  as  good  at  lying  as  he  was  himself.  The  evening 
passed  away  in  uninterrupted  hilarity  afterwards ;  and  it  was  nearly 
the  hour  when  fair  Aurora,  the  goddess  of  the  morning,  drives  up 
the  eastern  hills  her  stamping  steeds,  when  the  gay  guests  sepa- 
rated.. And  these  hard-hearted  parents  felt  no  pang  of  remorse 
for  having  so  cruelly  treated  their  own  daughter,  and  for  having 
descended  to  the  turpitude  of  lying  to  cover  their  meanness. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"  There  was  a  heart  of  treachery,  that  beat 
Beneath  that  smiling  face ;  and  there  was  guile 
In  every  word  of  his  smooth  tongue."— OLD  PLAY. 

jOOR  Nora  trudged  her  way  back  from  the  home  of  her 
unnatural  parents,  and  arrived,  almost  exhausted,  at 
Valley  Forge  before  the  day  dawned.  She  found  her 
husband  no  better  than  she  had  left  him,  and  indeed 
there  was  not  much  prospect  of  his  being  any  better,  unless  some 
proper  diet  could  be  obtained  to  nourish  him.  His  little  stock  of 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  55 

money  had  all  been  exhausted,  and  Nora  had  sold,  one  by  one, 
and  piece  by  piece,  all  her  jewelry,  she  had  once  idolized,  and  all 
her  elegant  dresses.  She  had  retained  for  her  use  the  meanest  of 
her  clothing.  It  was  in  the  desperate  hope  of  obtaining  assistance, 
that  she  had  gone  to  her  father's  house;  but,  alas!  the  reader  is 
acquainted  with  the  reception  she  met.  Disconsolate  and  weep- 
ing, she  sat  by  the  pallet  of  her  now  emaciated  husband ;  without 
a  penny  to  procure  even  the  most  ordinary  delicacy  for  a  sick  per- 
son. The  fare  meted  out  to  the  soldiers  was  scant,  and  of  such  a 
quality  that  was  repulsive  to  a  delicate  palate. 

"Don't  grieve  any  more  about  it,  my  gentle  wife,"  said  Captain 
Danvers,  who  idolized  Nora.  "Providence  will  take  care  of  us, 
and  the  day  will  come,  perhaps,  when  your  parents  will  be  glad 
to  receive  us." 

"I  rely  upon  that  Providence  of  which  you  speak,"  returned 
Nora,  "and  were  it  not  for  that  firm  reliance,  I  should  sink  under 
the  distress  of  mind  I  endure." 

To  procure  a  small  pittance  with  which  to  purchase  necessaries 
for  her  husband,  Nora  was  under  the  necessity  of  washing  for  the 
officers,  though  she  had  been  reared  in  delicacy,  and  never  had 
known  what  toil  was,  save  by  the  name.  In  the  halls  of  gaiety 
and  grandeur  she  had  moved  amid  the  proudest  of  the  land,  who 
had  considered  it  an  honor  to  be  favored  with  her  smile;  and 
now,  when  her  hands  bled  at  the  wash  tub,  and  she  thought  of  the 
cruelty  of  her  parents,  she  paused  from  her  labor  and  melted  into 
tears.  She  did  not  repine  at  the  task  of  laboring  for  the  comfort 
of  her  husband,  but  that  her  parents,  possessing  thousands,  refused 
even  to  listen  to  her  tale  of  want  and  woe. 

"Oh!  how  much,"  she  would  exclaim,  when  weary  with  toil, 
"should  our  children  appreciate  that  liberty,  to  obtain  which  so 
much  is  endured,  and  so  much  blood  is  shed!  Never,  never 
should  they  forget  the  immense  price  at  which,  if  obtained,  it 
must  be  purchased." 

The  night  was  dark  and  stormy.  The  lurid  lightnings  leaped 
athwart  the  gloomy  concave  of  heaven  and  thunder  rolled  along 
and  reverberated  from  hill  to  hill,  and  died  away  in  the  distance  of 
the  dark  forests  that  frowned  around.  A  black  cloud,  portentious 
of  rain,  hung  in  the  western  heavens,  and  was  rising  rapidly  to  the 
zenith.  Nora  was  seated  beside  Captain  Danvers,  reading  to  him 
a  passage  in  the  Scriptures,  relating  to  the  trials  of  life  and  the 
promise  that  the  righteous  shall  never  be  forsaken,  when  she  sud- 
denly lifted  her  eyes,  and  started  at  the  presence  of  the  strangest 


56  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD   BARD. 

looking  being  she  had  ever  seen.  She  had  heard  of  the  wizard 
that  roamed  the  forest,  and  a  feeling  of  awe  pervaded  her  heart;  for, 
like  most  people,  she  was  not  free  from  superstition.  Her  hus- 
band had  fallen  asleep,  and  there  was  a  deep  silence,  save  when 
the  crashing  thunder  clap  came,  deafening  the  ear,  as  if  a  thou- 
sand oaks  had  been  riven. 

"  Be  not  afraid  my  child,"  said  the  withered  looking  being. 

"From  whence  come  you,  and  how  did  you  find  entrance?" 
enquired  Nora,  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

"I  have  a  charm,  madam,  by  which  I  gain  admittance  every- 
where; and  I  come  to  place  in  your  hands  the  means  of  supplying 
your  husband's  wants.  I  was  at  the  house  of  your  father  when 
you  appealed  to  him  for  assistance,  though  I  was  then  in  a  very 
different  character;  and  I  heard  all  that  passed  between  you. 
Here  is  a  purse,  which  will  supply  your  wants  for  a  time.  In  the 
character  of  a  fortune-teller,  I  have  acquired  the  contents  from  the 
rich,  and  it  will  serve  to  relieve  suffering  virtue." 

He  handed  her  a  purse,  and  so  fully  did  it  fulfil  the  passage  she 
had  been  reading  in  Holy  Writ,  that  she  could  not  refrain  from 
shedding  tears,  and  offering  up  thanks  to  the  Author  of  all  good, 
and  the  Giver  of  all  that  we  enjoy.  She  turned  to  thank  the  im- 
mediate donor;  but  found,  to  her  surprise,  that  he  was  gone. 
So  mysterious  was  his  appearance  and  disappearance,  at  such  an 
hour,  that  she  felt  an  indefinable  fear,  she  knew  not  why,  and  it 
was  some  time  ere  she  could  compose  herself. 

"Strange  things  are  related  of  this  strange  being,"  said  she  to 
her  husband,  who  had  been  awakened  during  the  latter  part  of  the 
interview.  "It  is  said  that  he  has  a  ring  which  by  an  incantation, 
renders  him  invisible,  so  that  he  can  enter  where  he  pleases;  and 
that  whatever  he  foretells,  is  fulfilled  to  the  letter." 

"Yes,"  returned  Captain  Danvers,  "he  has  prophesied  that  the 
struggle  for  independence,  in  which  we  are  engaged,  will  triumph, 
and  may  God  grant  that  his  words  may  be  verified." 

"God  grant  it!"  repeated  Nora,  as  she  counted  the  pieces  of 
silver  which  the  wizard  had  given  her,  and  then  re-commenced 
her  reading. 

The  wizard  approached  the  tent  of  Gen.  Washington,  and  found 
him  engaged  in  devotion.  He  was  offering  thanks  to  God  for  the 
triumphs  he  had  already  achieved;  and  praying  that  the  chains, 
imposed  by  England,  might  be  eventually  riven,  and  that  success 
might  crown  the  efforts  of  a  suffering,  bleeding  country.  The 
solemnity  of  the  scene  arrested  him  in  his  progress,  and  he  stood 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  5t 

listening  to  the  rich  melodious  tones  of  the  good  soldier,  who  was 
pleading  the  £ause  of  a  nation  baptised  in  blood  and  tears. 
Washington  arose  from  his  knees,  and  was  informed  that  a  person 
wished  to  see  him  on  particular  business. 

"Let  him  enter,"  said  Washington,  and  the  mysterious  man 
stood  before  him. 

"Well,  General,  we  have  met  again,  as  I  told  you  we  should." 

Washington  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot,  and  for  a  time 
seemed  puzzled;  but  at  length  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"Had  you  not  used  the  expression  you  did,  I  should  not  have 
known  you,"  returned  Washington,  motioning  him  to  be  seated. 

"I  have  come,  General,  upon  momentous  business — business 
that  closely  concerns  your  welfare." 

"And,  pray,  what  is  that?" 

"You  are  aware,  sir,  that  Johnstone  with  his  associates,  sent 
from  England  with  offers  of  what  the  Colonies  demanded,  being 
foiled  in  their  attempt  at  negotiating  a  treaty,  are  employed  in 
attempting  to  corrupt  the  people,  and  are  offering  bribes  to  any 
who  should  be  treacherous  enough  to  receive  them." 

'•'I  am,"  coolly  answered  Washington,  "and  they  richly  de- 
serve the  halter." 

"Well,  General,  an  infamous  offer,  of  twenty  thousand  pounds 
and  a  patent  of  nobility,  has  been  made  to  any  one  who  will  be 
base  enough  to  betray  you  into  the  hands  of  the  British." 

Washington  started  with  surprise  and  smiled. 

"And  has  any  one  accepted  the  brilliant  offer?" 

"Yes,  sir!  odious  as  it  is  in  the  eyes  of  the  upright,  it  has  been 
accepted  and  by  one  you  would  little  suspect — by  one  who  pre- 
tends to  be  the  friend  of  freedom — by  one  who  would  flatter  you 
to  your  face,  and  who  is  already  wealthy,  and  stands  high  in 
society." 

"And,  pray,  who  may  the  honorable  gentlemen  be,  who  would 
reap  so  great  a  reward  by  the  capture  of  my  humble  self?"  en- 
quired Washington  .humorously. 

"You  may  rely  upon  the  truth  of  the  matter,  General.  The 
bargain  has  been  struck, .the  plan  arranged,  and  the  villain  is  no 
other  than  your  quondam  friend,  Thomas  Summers." 

Washington  started  at  the  sound  of  the  name,  for  he  had  but 
recently  been  at  the  house  of  Summers,  and  had  been  flattered  in 
a  fulsome  manner  for  his  success  in  the  capture  of  Burgoyne,  and 
the  wisdom  he  had  generally  evinced.  As  before  observed, 
Washington  had  long  suspected  the  fidelity  of  Summers. 
8 


58  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Merciful  Heaven  !"  exclaimed  Washington,  elevating  his  eyes, 
"how  can  it  be  possible  for  a  man  to  be  so  deceitful!  How  can 
he  express  the  warmest  friendship  of  the  heart,  at  the  same  time 
that  he  is  planning  the  ruin  of  his  misnamed  friend!" 

"Ah!  General,  the  word  gold  can  solve  the  mystery.  Ambition 
unlawful  ambition,  has  been,  and  will  be,  the  bane  of  thousands." 
"But  how  do  you  know  this?"  enquired  Washington. 
"I  have  it  from  his  own  mouth.  I  was  introduced  to  him  in 
Philadelphia  by  accident,  as  an  Englishman;  and  he  believes 
me  to  be  the  bitter  enemy  of  those  he  stigmatizes  by  the 
name  of  rebels.  I  have  had  two  interviews  with  him,  the  last  in 
the  presence  of  Johnstone,  Carlisle  and  Eden,  and  heard  the 
matter  discussed.  It  is  to  put  you  on  your  guard,  that  you  may 
keep  your  eye  on  Summers,  that  I  came  here  at  such  an  hour. 
He  is  treacherous,  and  will  stab  while  he  flatters  you.  He  is  in 
raptures  with  the  prospect,  and  the  emoluments  he  will  reap  by 
the  consummation.  Beware  of  him." 

"Is  it  his  intention  to  take  me  dead,  or  alive?" 
"Alive,  of  course.     The  triumph   would  be  half  lost,  if  you 
were  not  taken  alive.     And,  then,  it  is   desired  by  hanging  you 
to  strike  alarm  to  others;  and  thus  crush,  at  one  blow,  the  cause 
of  freedom  in  America," 

"That  can  never  be  done,"  said  Washington  proudly.  "The 
fire  which  has  been  kindled,  will  continue  to  burn,  until  the  long 
oppressed  people  of  this  country  shall  be  free.  That  man  shall  yet 
repent  his  treachery — ay,  he  shall  repent  it  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 
What  is  the  plan  fixed  upon  for  carrying  the  capture  into  effect?" 
"This  is  not  fully  arranged,  General,  in  every  particular;  but  as 
it  is  more  and  more  developed,  I  will  communicate  it  to  you, 
Summers  is  the  leader  in  the  affair,  and  is  to  betray  you  under  the 
mask  of  friendship." 

"I  have  observed,"  said  Washington,  "that  he  is  particularly 
friendly  of  late,  and  anxious  that  I  should  visit  him." 

"Ay,  sir,  he  has  his  object  in  view.  It  is  growing  late,  and  I 
must  leave  you,  General.  Be  assured,  however,  that  I  will  sift  the 
matter,  and  disappoint  the  villainous  intention  after  all." 

With  the  thanks  of  Washington,  the  mysterious  man  left  the 
camp,  and  took  his  way  through  the  dark  forest,  his  path  illumi- 
nated by  the  occasional  flashes  of  lightning,  that  shot  from  a 
retiring  cloud.  Washington  remained  some  time  reflecting  on  the 
desperate  wickedness  of  the  human  heart,  and  the  deceitfulness 
of  man. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  59 


CHAPTER     VII. 

"  O  God  1  thy  arm  was  here ; 
And  not  to  us,  but  to  thine' arm  alone, 
Ascribe  we  all." — SHA.KSPEARE. 

)HE  adventure,  about  to  be  described,  really  occurred ; 
and  shows  to  what  desperate  measures  men  will  resort 
for  the  sake  of  gold,  and  the  bubble  of  fame.  Summers 
knew,  that  if  he  could  capture  Washington,  the  leader 
of  the  American  army,  that  it  would  immortalize  his  name,  and 
fill  his  purse;  though  the  fame  he  would  acquire,  would  bear 
upon  it  the  curse  of  every  patriotic  heart.  Johnstone  had  pro- 
mised him,  not  only  wealth,  in  the  event  of  his  capturing  the  com- 
mander-in-chief,  but  nobility;  for  which,  not  only  Summers,  but 
his  whole  family  sighed.  It  was  ludicrous,  as  well  as  ridiculous, 
to  hear  Madam  Summers  and  her  two  daughters,  for  Mary  had 
now  returned  from  school,  talking  of  the  style  in  which  they 
would  move,  when  Lord  and  Lady  Summers  should  receive  the 
patent  of  nobility,  and  rank  with  the  aristocracy  of  England, 
whither  they  meant  to  go. 

The  mysterious  man,  who  had  become  known  to  Summers  as 
Mr.  Mandeville,  from  England,  had  the  advantage  of  knowing  all 
that  passed  in  the  British  army,  as  well  as  in  the  family  of  the 
tory  Summers.  So  perfect  a  Proteus  was  he,  or  so  skilled 
in  disguising  himself,  that  many  persons  declared  it  to  be  like 
magic;  for  in  a  few  minutes  he  could  so  completely  change  his 
appearance,  that  no  one  would  have  recognized  him  as  the  same 
being.  At  one  time  he  was  seen  as  an  old  man,  bending  on  his 
staff;  at  another  as  an  old  woman,  decrepid  with  age;  and  at  a 
third  as  the  polished  and  dignified  gentleman,  in  the  name  of 
Mandeville,  or  some  other  cognomen.  He  possessed  too,  a  per- 
fect command  over  his  voice,  and  the  motions  of  his  body;  so 
much  so,  that  those  who  were  permitted  to  know  anything  of  his 
actions,  surmised  that  he  had  formerly  been  a  play  actor,  a  moun- 
tebank or  juggler.  Added  to  all  this,  he  was  a  ventriloquist;  often 
amusing  himself  by  creating  ludicrous  scenes,  and  imitating  voices 
at  a  distance.  It  was  by  these  means  that  he  had  acquired  the 
reputation  of  being  a  wizard,  a  soothsayer,  augur,  or  fortune-teller; 
and  many  believed  implicitly  whatever  he.  foretold.  By  means  of 
his  many  disguises  he  gained  admittance  everywhere,  and  was  of 
much  service  to  the  commander-in-chief,  by  communicating  the 


60  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

designs  of  the  British.  Very  few,  however,  were  suffered  to  know 
that  he  assumed  so  many  guises,  or  he  would  long  before  have 
paid  for  his  temerity  with  his  life. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Summers  had  been  busily  employed,  during 
a  week,  making  preparations  for  a  grand  display  at  a  party,  to  be 
given  to  Washington  and  his  officers,  in  honor  of  the  capture  of 
Burgoyne  and  his  army. 

"Tell  General  Washington,"  said  Mrs.  Summers  to  the  servant 
about  to  be  despatched  with  the  note  of  invitation,  "that  he  must 
be  certain  to  give  us  the  honor  of  his  company  on  Wednesday,  as 
the  party  is  given  entirely  to  do  him  honor." 

The  servant  mounted  the  horse,  and  as  he  rode  off,  she  added 
in  a  triumphant  tone 

"To  do  ourselves  honor  I  mean,  for  if  he  comes  he  will  certainly 
be  in  our  power;  and  if  he  become  our  captive,  O  happy,  happy 
day!  what  honors  will  await  us!" 

While  she  was  thus  enjoying  an  imaginary  triumph,  Mr.  Sum- 
mers rode  up  to  the  door  and  dismounted  in  haste. 

"Good,  wife,  good  news!"  he  breathlessly  exclaimed. 

"What  is  it!  what  is  it!"  she  enquired. 

"What  is  it!  Why  General  Washington  is  to  be  here  upon  a 
certainty,  without  fail,"  and  he  clapped  his  hands. 

"How  do  you  know,  husband?" 

"  O,  I  met  him,  and  he  assured  me  he  would  be  certainly  with 
us  on  Wednesday,  and  do  himself  the  honor  to " 

"To  do  us  everlasting  honor,"  screamed  theXrife',  finishing  the 
sentence,  and  laughing  with  joy.  "Good  news  indeed!"- 

"I  guess  he'll  catch  a  tartar  this  time,"  said  Mf.  Summers,  as 
he  playfully  ran  after  his  wife  into  the  house. 

Scarcely  had  they  entered,  when  Mary  Summers  came  running 
in,  frightened  at  a  queer  looking  being  in  the  yard. 

"O.  it's  the  wizard,  I  presume,"  said  Mr.  Summers.  "Come 
in,  Mr.  Fortune-Teller,  and  we'll  have  some  ftfn.  Here's  some 
money  for  you,  my  good  fellow ;  now  tell  us  what  will  happen  at 
our  house  this  week." 

They  all  laughed,  as  the  wizard  drew  forth  his  mysterious  im- 
plements, and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  waving  a  wand, 
while  he  drew  an  imaginary  circle  on  the  carpet. 

"I  am  now  in  a  charmed  circle,"  he  said,  drawing  out  a  scroll, 
on  which  were  strange  characters. 

"Well,  what  is  to  happen?"  enquired  Summers,  winking  at 
them.  "The  horoscope  is  obscure  to-day,"  he  answered,  "and  I 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  61 

canuot  read  the  stars  distinctly ;  but,  est  in  domus  Jovum,  I  sec  a 
great  and  grand  assembly  of  military  men,  among  whom  is  George 
Washington,"  ''^ 

Mrs.  Summers  started  with  surprise,  and  the  giggling  ceased. 

"What  more?"  enquired  Summers  eagerly  and  seriously. 

"I  see  a  party  coming  on  horseback  covered  with  dust,  that 
look  like  British  soldiers — they  arrive  and  dismount " 

"Good  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Summers,  "this  is  strange." 

"Silence!"  exclaimed  her  husband,  joy  spreading  over  his  fea- 
tures. "What  next,  Mr.  Wizard." 

"George  Washington,  or  some  one  else,  is  a  prisoner,  in  the 
hands  of  a  party  I  cannot  distinguish — all  else  is  in  obscurity." 

"Enough!  enough!"  cried  Summers,  rubbing  his  hands. 

"Well,  it's  mighty  strange  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Summers,  "that 
he  can  tell  what  is  to  happen!  Who  would  have  believed  it!" 

Summers,  secretly  rejoiced,  handed  some  silver  to  the  wizard, 
and  he  departed,  well  pleased  at  having  obtained  the  means  of  re- 
lieving the  wants  of  Nora  and  her  husband. 

Astonishment  succeeded  ridicule  in  the  minds  of  the  tory 
family.  They  were  left  to  wonder  at  what  they  had  heard,  for 
they  never  suspected  that  they  had  been  speaking  to  Mr.  Mande- 
ville.  in  the  character  of  a  wizard;  and  little  did  they  know  of  the 
sequel  to  what  he  had  foretold.  Stars  and  garters,  and  the  gew- 
gaws of  nobility,  were  all  that  now  had  charms  for  them;  and  for 
these  they  were  resolved  to  sell  the  life  of  Washington,  and  the 
freedom  of  the"  country.  Johnstone  had  nearly  turned  their  heads 
with  brilliant  promises.  They  dreamed  of  nothing  but  the  capture 
of  Washington,  and  nobility. 

At  length  the'  day,  the  long  wished  for  day  of  the  grand  party 
arrived,  the  events  of  which  were  to  render  them  illustrious  and 
happy,  and  all  was  activity  and  bustle.  In  addressing  one  another, 
it  was  "my  lord," .and  "my  lady,"  until  they  rendered  themselves 
ridiculous,  even  M,  the  eyes  of  the  servants.  The  guests  began  to 
arrive,  one  after  another,  and  an  eager  eye  was  kept  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  countenance  of  Gen.  Washington;  but  still  he  did 
not  arrive.  Madam  and  Mr.  Summers  were  in  hysterics  about  it, 
and  began  to  fear  that  he  had,  by  some  means,  received  ah  inkling 
of  what  was  going  on,  when,  to  their  joy,  Mr.  Mandeville  made 
his  appearance,  and  informed  them  that  the  object  of  their  pecu- 
liar solicitude  would  soon  be  there. 

Washington  rode  up  in  a  few  minutes,  and  Summers  was  very 
particular  in  his  attentions  to  him:  so  much  so,  that  he 


62  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

seemed  to  doubt  that  he  was  any  thing  else  than  what  he  appeared, 
a  friend.  Large  was  the  party  there  assembled,  but  Summers 
paid  little  attention  to  any  but  the  commander-in-chief,  on  whose 
arm  he  hung,  and  whom  he  introduced  to  each  and  every  stran- 
ger. He  flattered  him  incessantly,  and  congratulated  him  on  the 
taking  of  Burgoyne,  and  the  prospect  of  the  triumph  of  liberty. 
Washington  listened  to  him  complacently,  as  though  ignorant  of 
his  design;  and  seemed  pleased  at  all  he  saw  and  heard.  While 
some  were  strolling  in  the  beautiful  garden,  now  in  full  bloom ; 
and  others  were  mingling  in  the  merry  dance,  Summers  and  Wash- 
ington were  busily  conversing  on  the  affairs  of  the  country,  and  of 
the  exploits  in  which  the  latter  had  been  engaged.  Mandeville 
kept  his  eye  on  the  two;  followed  them  wherever  they  went,  and 
occasionally  joined  in  their  conversation ;  though  he  was  now  un- 
known to  Washington.  During  the  absence  of  Summers,  how- 
ever, he  made  himself  known,  which  absence  lasted  but  a  few 
minutes.  Every  few  minutes,  during  the  first  hour  of  the  after- 
noon, Summers  walked  to  the  window;  or,  if  near  it,  turned  his 
eye  anxiously  towards  a  skirt  of  woodland  in  a  south-western 
direction;  but  Washington  affected  not  to  observe  him. 

"Well,  General,"  said  Summers,  with  a  dignified  manner,  "  what 
is  your  opinion  of  the  war?" 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Washington,  "it  is  a  just  one  on  our 
side;  and  in  the  second,  we  shall  triumph." 

"Just  my  opinion  precisely.  It  would  be  a  pity  to  fail  now, 
after  being  so  deeply  plunged  into  it." 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Summers  motioned  her  husband  to  look 
from  the  window,  which  he  did,  and  saw  some  soldiers  in  red 
coats,  on  horseback,  just  emerging  from  the  skirt  of  woodland 
spoken  of. 

"But,  upon  second  thought,"  said  Mr.  Summers,  with  some 
trepidation,  "I  am  inclined  to  think  you  will  not  succeed." 

"Why  do  you  think  so,  sir?"  enquired  Washington,  glancing 
his  eye  in  the  direction  of  the  approaching  soldiers,  but  betraying 
no  emotion. 

"Because  you  have  many  obstacles  to  overcome,  which  I  fear 
will  be  insurmountable,"  returned  Summers,  looking  anxiously 
from  the  window  at  the  soldiers,  who  were  drawing  near. 

"Never  fear,"  returned  Washington,  coolly. 

"You  have  cause  to  fear,"  said  Summers,  as  the  fed  coats  rode 
up  into  the  yard. 

"Why  so?"  demanded  Washington. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  63 

"Because  you  are  already  in  the  hands  of  the  British." 
"I  hope  not,  sir." 

"You  are  my  prisoner,  General,  in  the  name  of  the  king,"  ex- 
claimed Summers,  with  great  pride  and  pleasure;  slapping  him  at 
the  same  time  on  the  shoulder. 
"I  presume  not,  sir." 

."You  will  find  it  so,  General,  in  a  few  minutes,"  said  Summers, 
laughing  with  joy,  in  which  Mrs.  Summers  joined. 

"You  may  think  so,"  returned  Washington,  "but  I  know  you 
are  my  prisoner,  in  the  na-me  of  outraged  America.  Captain  Mor- 
ton," said  he  to  an  officer  that  came  in  at  the  instant,  "seize  him 
and  bear  him  instantly  to  the  camp." 

Summers  could  not  believe  that  he  was  himself  a  captive,  until 
the  American  soldiers,  disguised  in  red  coats,  advanced  and  pin- 
ioned him ;  so  certain  was  he  that  the  party  of  soldiers  were  Bri- 
tish, he  having  made  arrangements  that  they  should  arrive  at  three 
o'clock,  and  Washington  having  directed  his  own  soldiers  to  be 
there  half  an  hour  before  the  time.  Thus  was  he  taken  in  his  own 
trap,  and  borne  off  in  triumph  before  the  British. 

At  the  moment  her  husband  was  seized,  and  discovered  his  mis- 
take, Mrs.  Summers  uttered  one  piercing  scream,  and  fell  swoon- 
ing to  the  floor;  nor  less  wretched  were  her  daughters.  The 
dancing  instantly  ceased,  and  mirth  that  reigned  supreme  a  mo- 
ment before,  was  changed  into  consternation  and  wonder. 

Washington  and  the  prisoner  were  gone,  ere  the  British  came, 
full  of  hope  of  taking  him  prisoner;  but  great  was  their  disappoint- 
ment and  chagrin,  when  they  found  that  Summers,  the  tory  and 
traitor,  had  been  taken.  They  found  the  house  filled  with  lamen- 
tation and  woe,  where  they  expected  to  hear  the  shouts  of  rejoicing 
and  triumph. 

This  incident,  so  full  of  interest,  the  reader  may  have  met  with 
elsewhere,  as  it  really  occurred  during  the  revolution ;  though  it 
has  never,  I  believe,  found  a  place  on  the  pages  of  history. 

As  the  soldiers  were  conveying  the  prisoner  to  Valley  Forge,  he 
made  several  ineffectual  attempts  to  escape,  and  to  bribe  them  to 
set  him  at  liberty;  but  they  heard  his  offers  with  contempt  and 
ridicule.  Finding  that  all  his  endeavors  failed,  he  maintained  a 
sullen  silence  during  the  rest  of  the  journey,  and  submitted  to  the 
fate  he  could  not  avoid. 


64  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

"  The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  and  men, 

Gang  aft  a-gley, 
And  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  and  pain, 

For  promised  joy."— BURNS. 

ETTER  after  letter  did  Washington  receive  from  Mrs. 
Summers,  couched  in  the  most  pathetic  language,  im- 
ploring him,  in  the  name  of  a  wretched  wife  and  daugh- 
ters, to  set  his  prisoner  at  liberty;  and  thus  show  to  the 
world  that  magnanimity  for  which  he  was  distinguished.  Wash- 
ington felt  the  force  of  these  pathetic  appeals,  but  firmly  and  po- 
litely denied  the  request.  But  there  was  another  pleader  for  the 
liberation  of  the  captive;  for  whom  he  felt  a  greater  sympathy. 
This  was  Nora,  who,  notwithstanding  the  cruel  treatment  she 
received  at  the  hands  of  her  parents,  could  not  close  her  ears  to 
their  cries.  She  added  her  supplication  to  their's,  but  Washing- 
ton was  still  unmoved  by  their  entreaties,  or  at  least  appeared  to 
be  so.  Summers  meanly  humbled  himself  so  far  as  to  beg  his  life 
of  him  whom  he  was  strenuously  endeavoring  to  devote  to  the 
scaffold,  as  well  as  to  defeat  the  struggle  for  liberty.  Most  humbly 
he  begged  for  life,  while  his  wife  and  daughters  left  nothing  untried, 
which  they  thought  woald  be  likely  to  influence  the  aoul  of  Wash- 
ington. They  evidently  had  not  known  the  man  they  had  to  deal 
with,  and  they  now  felt  it  keenly. 

Summers  was  tried  by  a  court-martial,  and  sentenced  to  die, 
without  a  dissenting  voice.  Every  effort  was  now  redoubled  to 
save  him,  not  only  by  his  family,  but  by  tories  and  the  British.  On 
a  lovely  morning  in  June,  when  the  woodland  was  vocal  with  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  all  nature  was  bursting  into  bloom  and  beauty, 
Washington  was  sitting  in  his  tent,  conversing  with  General  La 
Fayette,  when  a  messenger  entered  with  a  letter.  He  broke  the 
sable  seal,  and  read  it  aloud;  while  a  tear  stole  down  his  cheek. 
It  was  from  Mrs.  Summers,  who  was  really  a  lady  of  education, 
having  been  educated  in  England;  and  in  this  letter  she  displayed 
all  her  powers  of  composition. 

"  GENERAL. — On  my  knees  humbly  before  you,  and  in  the  name  of  a  heart- 
broken wife  and  weeping  daughters,  distracted  at  their  father's  fate;  I  implore 
you  to  spare — Oh  !  yes,  to  spare  a  poor  unhappy  husband  and  father,  who, 
through  the  influence  of  others,  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  forgot  his  duty 
and  committed  an  error,  which  he,  in  his  calmer  hours  of  reason,  I  am  sure, 
would  have  disdained.  Oh!  General,  pardon  him  this  first  act  of  wrong  he  has 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  65 

ever  committed  against  his  country  and  your  illustrious  person;  and  save,  oh! 
save,  from  irretrievable  ruin  and  despair,  the  wretched  wife  of  his  bosom,  and 
the  children  of  his  love,  one  of  whom  is  connected  in  marriage  with  a  brave 

officer  under  your  command.     Save  my  husband Oh !  General^  spare  his 

life,  and  the  world,  which  now  BO  highly  esteems  your  virtues,  will  venerate 
your  character  for  magnanimity  and  mercy.  While  the  tears  of  anguish  and 
despair  are  gushing  from  eyes  that,  until  now,  never  knew  sorrow  but  by  name; 
we  humbly  implore  you,  in  the  name  of  rrtercy;  in  the  name  of  humanity;  and 
in  the  name  of  that  glory,  which  you  have  never  yet  tarnished  by  stopping 
your  ears  to  the  cries  of  helpless  woman;  Oh!  General,  in  the  name  of  that 
God  you  profess  to  adore,  we  beg  you;  we  conjure  you;  we  implore  you,  to 
spare  him  who  is  doomed  to  die  on  the  scaffold.  •  Think,  oh!  think,  how  much 
misery  the  exercise  of  your  mercy  will  spare  to  hearts  already  bleeding  and 
breaking,  with  anguish  unutterable.  Spare  him,  and  you  will  thus,  like  the 
good  Samaritan,  bind  up  the  bleeding  bosom  of  a  miserable  mother — you  will, 
by  this  heavenly  act  of  mercy,  save  his  distracted  daughters  from  the  gulf  of 
despair  and  ruin — you  will,  by  thus  imitating  Him  who  came  to  forgive,  and 
who  hung  the  rainbow  of  redemption  round  a  dark  and  dying  world,  crown 
yourself  with  a  glory  more  imperishable  than  that  of  having  achieved  a  thou- 
sand victories  in  the  field,  or  of  having  subverted  a  thousand  thrones." 

This  letter  was  signed  "Mary  Summers;"  and  Washington, 
after  having  read  it  to  La  Fayette,  sat  some  time  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  vacancy,  wondering  that  a  mind  so  refined  could  yet  be 
so  depraved,  as  to  have  given  her  sanction  to  the  act  for  which  her 
unhappy  husband  was  doomed  to  die,  and  which  had  called  forth 
the  exercise  of  her  talents.  He  now  turned  to  his  writing-desk, 
and  wrote  her  an  answer  in  equally  pathetic  language,  the  conclu- 
sion of  which  ran  thus: 

"MADAM: — I  sincerely  deplore  the  necessity  of  signing  the  death-warrant  of 
your  husband,  whose  weakness  in  being  tempted  by  the  bribes  of  the  British  I 
pity,  and  the  sorrow,  of  which  his  fate  will  be  the  cause,  I  deplore.  I  would 
not  cruelly  cause  one  tear  of  anguish  to  flow  from  the  eyes  of  his  unhappy  wife 
and  children,  or  one  sigh  of  sorrow  to  break  from  their  bleeding  bosoms;  but  I 
cannot  disregard  the  interests  of  my  country,  and  the  safety  of  her  sons,  who 
have  so  long  suffered  and  bled  beneath  the  inflictions  of  her  enemies.  I  regret 
it — I  pity  the  pang  it  will  give — but  to-morrow,  at  sunrise,  he  dies." 

This  letter  was  signed  "Washington,"  and  despatched  to  the 
miserable  mother  and  her  daughters ;  and  with  it  went  the  dark- 
winged  angel  of  despair.  The  halls  that  so  lately  rung  with  mirth 
and  music,  now  echoed  the  soul-piercing  shiek  of  anguish,  and 
the  long  drawn  groan  of  agony.  Those  who  were  so  recently 
priding  themselves  on  their  aristocratic  greatness,  and  the  prospect 
of  wealth  and  nobility,  were  now  sunk  in  degradation  and  misery; 
while  the  husband  and  father  was  trembling  at  the  sight  of  the 
9 


66  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

|i 

scaffold. which  was  being  erected,  and  on  which  he  was  soon  to 
perish. 

The  morning  on  which  he  was  doomed  to  die  at  length  dawned, 
and  a  lovelier  morning  never  broke  upon  the  cradle  of  innocence 
in  Eden.  The  whole  army  was  put  in  motion,  and  marched  to  the 
place  of  execution ;  where  it  was  formed  into  a  great  circle  around 
the  scaffold.  The  musicians  were  then  attached  to  the  provo- 
guard,  and  marched  to  the  provo-guard-house,  from  which  the 
prisoner  was  brought  out,  and  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  guard. 
With  stow  and  solemn  steps  they  marched  to  the  scaffold,  the 
musicians  playing  the  dead  march,  to  which  the  soldiers  trod  per- 
fect time.  When  the  prisoner  was  brought  up,  the  chaplain  ad- 
dressed the  army  in  a  very  appropriate  and  solemn  manner;  after 
which,  a  prayer  was  offered  up  to  God,  who,  in  his  infinite  good- 
ness and  mercy,  had  defeated  the  designs  of  the  enemies  of  free- 
dom, and  saved  the  life  of  the  commander-in-chief.  When  allu- 
sion was  made  to  this,  Washington  wept. 

At  this  moment  the  attention  of  all  was  directed  to  three  female 
figures,  habited  in  deep  mourning,  who  were  approaching;  and 
whose  cries  resounded  through  the  depth  of  the  forest.  The  three 
advanced  near  Washington,  and  knelt  at  his  feet,  in  an  imploring 
attitude. 

"Spare,  oh!  spare  my  husband,"  cried  Mrs.  Summers,  in  tones 
that  spoke  the  deepest  agony. 

"Spare  the  life  of  my  poor  father!"  exclaimed  the  youngest 
daughter,  and  fell  swooning  on  the  ground. 

At  this  moment,  Nora,  whose  face  was  bathed  in  'tears,  came 
rushing  to  the  spot,  and  knelt  beside  her  mother,  adding  her  sup- 
plications to  that  of  her  mother,  that  the  life  of  her  father  might  be 
spared.  At  the  sight  and  sound  of  Nora's  grief,  many  of  the  sol- 
diers shed  tears,  and  felt  sincere  sympathy;  for  they  had  long 
noticed  her  devotion  to  her  helpless  husband,  and  formed  a  high 
appreciation  of  her  character.  Washington,  too,  had  a  high  respect 
for  her,  and  therefore  felt  inclined  to  listen  to  her  prayer 
that  her  father  might  be  saved.  He  was  visibly  affected  at  her 
grief,  and  the  natural  eloquence  that  flowed  in  glowing  language 
from  her  lips.  After  listening  to  her  pleading  some  time,  he  gave 
orders,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  the  prisoner  should  be  conveyed 
back  to  the  guard-house,  and  the  execution  suspended,  at  least  for 
the  present.  This  clemency  being  viewed  in  the  light  of  a  par- 
don, the  grief  of  the  mother  and  her  daughters  was  changed  to 
rejoicing,  and  none  seemed  more  rejoiced  than  poor  Nora,  though 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  67, 

•*. 

she  was  still  unnoticed  by  her  mother  and  sisters,  notwithstanding 
the  fact  that  they  felt  conscious  she  had  saved  the  life  of  the 
doomed  one.  Such  is  the  uncompromising  character  of  the  human 
heart,  when  it  cherishes  the  bitterness  of  malice  and  revenge;  and 
there  is  no  hatred  so  keen  and  cruel,  as  that  which  is  excited  in 
kindred  souls. 

The  mother  and  her  two  daughters  left  Valley  Forge  with  far 
different  feelings  from  those  with  which  they  arrived,  and  impressed 
with  a  high  sense  of  the  Christian  character  of  Washington'.  At 
the  suggestion  of  the  mysterious  man,  Washington  pa'rdoned 
Summers,  on  condition  that  he  should  leave  the  country  and  go 
into  exile;  leaving  to  his  own  choice  the  country  to  which  he 
would  go.  Summers  gladly  accepted  the  proffered  terms,  to  save 
his  life ;  and  soon  after  sold  his  property,  and  made  preparations 
to  sail  for  England,  attended  by  his  wife  and  youngest  daughter; 
Charlotte  having  resolved  to  remain  with  her  husband,  Charles 
Moreland,  now  an  officer  in  the  British  army. 

To  Nora,  the  thought  of  eternal  separation  from  her  parents  was 
severe;  for  she  lived  in  hope  that  she  would  succeed  in  reconcil- 
ing them  to  her  marriage  with  Captain  Danvers,  notwithstanding 
their  bitter  enmity  to  him.  Her  lot,  however,  was  cast  in 
troublous  times,  and  she  endeavored  to  bow  submissively  to  the 
decrees  of  heaven,  which  she  knew  it  was  useless  to  resist,  and 
sinful  to  repine  at.  Still  there  were  moments  after  they  had  de- 
parted, when  she  could  not  refrain  from  tears,  at  the  melancholy 
thought  that  she  would  never  behold  them  again  on  this  side  of 
the  grave. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"  The  tide  of  war  rolls  on,  and  the  red  arm 
Of  carnage  recks  with  gore,  in  battle  shed, 
By  man  opposed  to  man."— ANON. 

N  the  18th  of  June,  1778,  the  British  army  evacuated 
Philadelphia,  {hid  took  up  their  line  of  March,  through 
New  Jersey,  towards  the  city  of  New  York. 

Washington  immediately  after  put  the  American 
army  in  motion  and  left  Valley  Forge.  He  sent  out  a  de- 
tachment to  collect  the  Jersey  militia,  that  he  might  be  enabled  to 


68  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

harass  the  rear  of  the  retiring  British;  for  he  was  of  the  opinion 
that  the  wisest  course  to  pursue  was  to  bring  them  to  a  general 
engagement;  though  in  this  opinion  he  was  opposed  by  the 
judgment  of  a  majority  of  his  officers.  He  was,  however,  not  to 
be  moved  in  his  determination,  based  upon  cool  and  deliberate 
calculation;  and,  accordingly,  a  battle  was  the  result  on  the  28th 
of  June,  at  Monmouth,  in  which  the  republican  army  had  the  ad- 
vantage. The  victory  was  claimed  by  both  armies,  but  the  Amer- 
icans remained  masters  of  the  field,  having  far  less  killed  and 
wounded  than  the  British. 

Gen.  Lee  was  associated  with  Gen.  La  Fayette  in  the  command 
of  the  van;  and  here  it  was  that  Lee  committed  the  act  for  which 
he  was  censured,  and  suspended  one  year  from  his  command. 
Thinking  that  the  ground  in  his  rear  was  more  favorable  than  that 
on  which  he  had  been  standing,  he  in  haste  was  making  a  retro- 
grade motion,  when  he  was  met  by  Washington;  who,  astonished 
at  his  abandoning  a  ground  which  he  had  commanded  him  to  take, 
thus  giving  the  British  the  idea  that  he  was  retreating,  asked  him 
abruptly  what  he  meant,  and  gave  orders  for  forming  the  battalion. 
In  consequence,  however,  of  the  brave  conduct  of  Lee  that  day, 
after  this  occurence,  Washington  would  have  taken  no  farther 
notice  of  it,  had  not  Lee  thought  proper  to  write  disrespectful 
letters  to  him  on  the  result  of  the  battle. 

An  Indian  fought  desperately  during  the  battle,  and  was  seen 
flying  wherever  the  contest  was  hottest.  Every  eye  was  upon 
him,  though  no  one  knew  him,  or  from  whence  he  came.  At 
one  time,  he  was  seen  engaged,  hand  to  hand,  with  a  British 
officer;  and  at  another,  pouring  a  deadly  fire  upon  the  British 
ranks.  Many  a  Briton  that  day  bit  the  dust,  beneath  his  dextrous 
and  powerful  arm.  Wounded  and  bleeding,  he  rushed  on  like  an 
enraged  tiger.  As  night  threw  her  mantle  over  the  bloody  scene, 
he  was  observed  in  deadly  strife  with  a  British  officer,  whom  he 
seemed  to  know,  and  on  whom  he  appeared  to  wreak  his  ven- 
geance. Both  were  active  and  powerful,  and  when  night  ended 
the  battle  between  the  armies,  no  one  knew  which  had  become 
the  conqueror,  or  what  became  of  the  Indian;  for  he  was  not 
found  among  the  dead. 

In  every  battle,  afterward,  during  the  Revolution,  this  Indian 
was  seen  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  always  appeared  to  be 
in  search  of  some  particular  combatant.  He  performed  prodigies 
of  valor,  and  Washington  wished  to  discover  who  he  was,  that  he 
might  be  rewarded:  but  after  the  battle  was  over,  he  was  always 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  69 

missing — no  one  knew  from  whence  he  came,  or  whither  he  went; 
though  some  surmised  that  he  was  the  identical  wizard  of  Valley 
Forge,  or  the  mysterious  man. 

After  the  surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis,  this  Indian  disappeared, 
and  all  attempts  to  discover  him  proved  futile.  His  gallant  bear- 
ing, and  wonderful  achievements  had  reached  the  ears  of  Congress ; 
and  he  would  have  been  honored  but  could  not  be  discovered. 

The  first  part  of  the  tale  of  the  Mysterious  Man  here  terminates,  and  the 
second  part  will  be  a  Sequel  to  the  first,  disclosing  who  he  was;  the  cause  of 
the  course  of  life  he  had  led,  and  the  revenge  he  sought  and  consummated; 
which  will  disclose  to  the  reader  some  thrilling  and  touching  scenes.  The 
manuscript,  containing  the  history  of  his  life,  love,  and  revenge,  was  found 
some  time  after  the  war  had  closed  and  peace  visited  again  a  smiling  country, 
in  the  cave,  occupied  by  him  at  Valley  Forge.  It  was  placed  in  the  crevice  of 
the  rock  and  forgotten,  or  suffered  to  remain  by  design,  when  he  left  that 
place. 

In  the  succeeding  history  of  the  Mysterious  Man,  the  reader  will  be  led  to 
contemplate  the  effects  of  some  of  the  most  powerful  passions  of  the  human 
mind.  The  Sequel  will  be  given  in  the  manner  of  an  autobiography,  as  it  was 
written  by  the  identical  wizard  of  Valley  Forge;  in  which  will  be  found  a 
history  of  the  future  fate  of  the  different  characters  I  have  introduced.  The 
reader  will  find  the  Sequel  the  more  interesting  part  of  the  tale. 

•  f  i;-'    )$;t« 

~-^t,±x  ,. -,:,••  .4      ,.  v* 


CHAPTER    X. 

•  .» 

"A  weary  wand'rer  in  the  wild." — OLD  PLAY. 

FEW  years  after  the  dark  storm  of  war  had  rolled 
away,  and  the  independence  had  been  obtained,  for 
which  the  brave  men  of  the  revolution  had  fought,  bled, 
and  immolated  their  lives  on  the  sacred  altar  of  their 
country;  an  old  soldier  might  have  been  seen,  bending  upon  his, 
staff,  up  one  of  the  hills  that  rise  in  majestic  grandeur  from  Valley 
Forge.  He  was  paying  a  visit  to  the  spot  where  the  army  had 
encamped,  in  order  to  pick  up  any  relics  of  that  trying  period,  and 
of  that  army  of  heroes  that,  with  stoic  fortitude,  had  endured  so 
much  hardship  and  suffering,  that  they  might  bequeath  to  their 
posterity,  sealed  with  their  blood,  the  glorious  privileges  which  we 
now  enjoy.  Though  he  lived  not  many  miles  from  Valley  Forge, 
he  knew  nothing  of  the  cave  in  which  the  Wizard  performed  his 
incantations,  until  chance  led,  his  footsteps  to  the  very  entrance, 


70  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

now  overgrown  with  weeds  and  shrubbery,  briars  and  bushes;  nor 
might  he  now  have  noticed  it,  had  not  a  hare  leaped  out  from  its 
enclosure.  Turning  aside  the  bushes,  he  looked  in  and  discovered 
that  the  passage  led  to  an  expanded  room,  like  that  of  a  house; 
but  he  halted,  lest  some  wild  beast  might  have  made  it  his  lair,  and 
his  curiosity  should  cost  him  his  life. 

But  having,  in  the  days  gone  by,  been  inured  to  hardship  and 
danger,  when  the  leaden  messengers  flew  by  him  on  the  field  of 
battle;  he  prepared  to  enter.  With  cautious  steps  he  trod  the 
rocky  pavement  of  the  passage,  and  soon  found  himself  in  a  capa- 
cious hall.  It  was  the  place  where  the  mysterious  man  had  spent 
many  a  gloomy  night,  when  the  artillery  of  heaven  rolled  through 
the  dark  forest,  which  every  -minute  was  illumined  with  the  lurid 
glare  of  the  lightning  as  it  leaped  along  the  concave,  like  a  fiery 
serpent,  and  flashed  into  the  mouth  of  his  cave,  eclipsing  the  lamp 
which  dimly  shone  upon  the  paper  on  which  he  was  writing. 

The  soldier  soon  discovered  that  it  had  been  the  habitation  of 
some  human  being,  as  the  ashes  still  remained  in  the  fire-place  of 
the  chimney  formed  by  nature.  His  curiosity  was  now  excited, 
and  led  him  to  examine  minutely  every  recess,  crack  and  crevice: 
but,  for  a  time,  he  discovered  nothing  but  some  fragments,  and 
crusts  of  mouldy  bread,  and  pieces  of  paper,  stuffed  away  in  the 
dry  crevices  of  the  rock. 

At  length,  when  nearly  weary  of  his  pursuit,  his  eye  detected, 
in  a  concealed  nook  of  one  of  the  most  secluded  recesses  of  the 
cave,  the  end  of  a  scroll  of  paper,  which  he  eagerly  drew  forth  and 
unrolled,  though  in  some  degree  injured  by  moisture  and  the  tooth 
of  time.  He  sat  down  on  the  identical  projection  of  rock,  where 
the  mysterious  man  had  so  often  sat,  indulging  in  reminiscences 
of  his  past  life;  in  forming  plans  for  the  defeat  of  the  British;  and 
in  writing  the  history  which  the  soldier  held  in  his  hand, 

In  glancing  over  the  pages,  he  perceived  that  it  was  indeed  a 
Jiistory  of  that  strange  individual,  of  whose  exploits  and .  hair- 
breadth escapes  he  had  heard  so  much  during  the  revolution;  and 
he  sat  some  time,  wondering  what  had  become  of  him. 

We  shall  here  transcribe  the  contents  of  the  scroll,  found  by  the 
soldier  in  the  cave  at  Valley  Forge.  We  shall 

"  Nothing  extenuate, 
Nor  aught  set  down  in  malice." 


OR   THE 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  Homo  homini  Lupus." 

Man  is  a  wolf  to  man.— ERASMUS. 

AM  an  Englishman  by  birth,  but  through  strong 
prejudices  and  unparalleled  injuries,  I  have  been 
made  an  American  at  heart.  I  was  born  in 
London,  and  educated  at  Edinburg.  I  was  the 

second  son  of  the  Earl  of ,  and,  of  course, 

by  the  unjust  law  of  primogeniture,  I  was  not 
the  heir  of  my  father's  estates  and  titles.  It  was 
the  intention  of  my  parents  to  educate  me  for 
the  church,  and  I  was  accordingly  entered  at 
the  University  of  Edinburg,  under  the  direction 
of  some  relatives  of  my  mother. 

At  the  University,  it  was  my  fatal  fortune  to 
be  associated  with  two  youths,  who  were  bro- 
thers, sons  of  Lord  Manley,  and  who  possessed 
talents  of  a  superior  order.  But  they  were,  also, 
endowed  with  passions  the  most  vile  and  vicious. 
Being  twins,  they  were  so  much  alike,  that  the  one  was  often  mis- 
taken for  the  other;  and,  indeed,  few  could  distinguish  them  but 
by  a  certain  mark  on  the  brow  of  Roland.  His  brother,  Oliver, 
was,  like  him,  in  the  indulgence  of  every  ignoble  passion,  and 
their  dissipation,  while  at  the  University,  became  proverbial. 

We  were,  unfortunately,  class-mates  at  the  University,  and 
became  rivals;  which  rivalry,  in  the  classics,  led  to  hatred,  as  is 
often  the  case,  especially  where  one  may  excel.  Being  more  stu- 


72  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

dious  than  they  were,  the  honors  I  received,  gradually  engendered 
in  their  hearts  a  bitter  animosity  against  me;  though  they  dared 
not  openly  exhibit  it,  but  endeavored  to  injure  me  by  detraction, 
in  every  secret  and  underhand  manner  in  their  power. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  their  hatred  of  me  increased,  in  proportion 
to  the  degree  in  which,  by  superior  application  and  industry,  I 
excelled  them  in  the  progress  of  education ;  and  yet,  with  that 
deceit  which  seems  to  be  inherent  in  the  human  heart,  they  were 
polite,  and  pretended  to  be  fond  of  my  friendship;  though  their 
object  was,  by  doing  so,  to  have  it  more  effectually  in  their  power 
to  injure  me. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  Edinburg  resided  a  widow  and  her  two 
daughters;  and  two  fairer  or  more  lovely  creatures,  the  sun  never 
shone  upon.  This  family  was  a  decayed  remnant  of  one  of  the 
most  noble  and  powerful  clans,  that  ever  sounded  the  pibroch  on 
the  highlands  of  "Auld  Scotia." 

Rosalie  and  Elvira  Mac  Donald  had  been  left  with  their  mother, 
with  enough  of  this  world's  wealth  to  live  comfortably,  with  econ- 
omy, and  no  more.  The  beauty  of  the  daughters,  who  resembled 
each  other  almost  as  much  as  the  two  brothers  I  have  mentioned, 
became  the  theme  of  all  the  gay,  dashing  young  fellows  of  the 
college;  and,  indeed,  no  eye  could  have  gazed  upon  their  wax-like 
features,  without  feelings  of  admiration.  It  is  needless  to  describe 
them  now,  further  than  to  say,  that  they  were  beautiful,  beyond 
that  beauty  which  commonly  falls  to  woman ;  and  they  were  no 
less  happy,  amiable  and  virtuous. 

"George  St.  Leger,"  said  Roland,  as  he  passed  with  his  brother 
on  the  way  to  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Mac  Donald,  "you  are  a  favorite 
with  Rosalie;  but  you  must  look  out,  or  I'll  rout  you,  horse,  foot, 
and  dragoons." 

I  paid  no  attention  to  his  slang,  but  felt  a  sensation  of  jealousy 
creep  into  my  heart;  for  in  spite  of  opposition,  I  felt  that  I  was 
attracted  towards  the  cottage  with  a  power  that  I  could  not  resist. 
I  felt  that  Rosalie  possessed  charms,  aside  from  her  personal  beauty, 
that  I  fancied  no  other  lady  possessed;  and,  then,  I  was  at  that 
age,  (nineteen  years,)  when  love  unlocks  our  hearts,  in  spite  of 
resistance,  which,  hoVet^r,  is  seldom  made,  save  when  it  is  too 
late. 

It  will  forever  remain  a  subject  for  debate,  whether  love  and  jeal- 
ousy are  compatible.  Some  contend  that  jealousy  is  mean,  and 
that  it  is  by  rfe  means  the  concomitant  or  follower  of  love;  but  it 
is  my  opinion,  that  jealousy  is  the  offspring  of  love,  as  a  shadow 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    l^ILFORD    BARD.  73 

is  of  light;  and  that  the  more  devoutly  we  love,  the  stronger  will 
be  our  jealousy.  It  is  evident  that  we  are  never  jealous  of  tha  t 
object  for  which  we  have  but  little  regard;  and,  consequently,  the 
very  existence  of  jealousy,  proves  how  much  we  prize  the  object 
of  our  regard  or  love. 

But  to  proceed.  Rosalie  was  in  her  sixteenth  year;  her  sister 
being  a  year  older.  They  were  both  extremely  lively  and  commu- 
nicative ;  and  there  is  nothing  on  this  side  of  the  grave  so  lovely, 
so  fascinating,  so  winning,  as  a  beautiful  and  communicative  wo- 
man. Rosalie  won  my  heart  ere  I  was  aware  of  the  matter,  and  I 
found  myself  sighing  in  secret,  abstracted,  and  fond  of  solitude, 
without  knowing  what  ailed  me;  until  I  discovered  that  I  could 
not  be  happy  away  from  the  fair  idol  of  my  heart.  I  discovered, 
too,  that  I  could  not  study — indeed,  I  could  do  nothing  but  think 
of  the  charms  of  the  beautiful  Rosalie.  Oh!  happy,  happy  days 
of  courtship,  now  gone  forever!  When  I  turn  mine  eye  upon  the 
past,  and  survey  the  miseries  I  have  endured,  my  heart  bleeds  with 
sorrow *  *  *  *  *  n;»* ,.  -4 

Here  the  manuscript  was  obliterated,  and  bore  the  marks  of  stains,  as  if 
overpowered  by  feelings,  a  gush  of  tears  had  been  poured  forth  upon  the  paper. 

My  visits  to  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Mac  Donald  became  more  and 
more  frequent,  and  I  often  found  my  rivals  there;  they  used 
every  means  to  supplant  me.  Roland  fixed  his  serpent  eye  on  the 
charms  of  Rosalie,  and  through  that  bitter  hatred  which  he  secretly 
cherished  for  me,  used  every  scheme,  and  all  the  powers  of  lan- 
guage, to  prejudice  her  mind  against  me;  but  in  vain,  for  he  who 
seeks  to  rend  asunder  the  silken  chain  of  love,  which  has  been 
riveted  around  the  heart  of  woman,  can  never  do  so,  by  persecut- 
ing the  object  of  her  affection.  The  more  the  idol  of  the  heart's 
idolatry  is  persecuted,  the  more  closely  does  she  cling  to  him ; 
for  she  learns  to  pity  him  who  is  persecuted,  and  pity,  which  is 
akin  to  love,  fans  the  fire  into  a  fiercer  flame. 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  I  resolved  to  marry  Rosalie,  in 
spite  of  the  opposition  of  all  my  friends,  my  parents,  and  my  rival. 
Oliver,  the  brother  of  Roland,  who  was  famed  for  his  manly  beauty, 
had  wooed  and  won  the  heart  of  the  fai*.  Ehira;  but  it  was  with 
that  love  which  the  tiger  feels  for  the  lamb ;  it  was  that  affection 
which  the  serpent  feels,  when  his  fascinating  eye  tempts  the  bird 
within  reach  of  his  fatal  fangs. 

I  married  Rosalie  secretly,  for  my  family,  particularism  y  parents, 
were  violently  opposed,  and  had  threatened  to  renounce  me  for- 
10 


74  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

ever,  if  I  thwarted  their  wishes.  But  shortly  after  this  event,  the 
fatal  truth  was  made  manifest,  that  Oliver  had  proved  a  villain ; 
and  that  the  beautiful,  the  amiable,  and  innocent  Elvira,  was  the 
victim  of  deception,  and  that  she  was  blasted  forever. 

Never  shall  I  forget  the  hour  that  followed  the  disclosure  of  this 
heart-rending  event.  But  notwithstanding  the  timid  and  gentle 
nature  of  Elvira,  the  spirit  of  the  Mac  Donalds  animated  her  heart; 
she  shed  not  a  tear,  save  when  her  distracted  mother  fell  and  ex- 
pired in  the  arms  of  Rosalie,  the  moment  she  learned  that  her 
daughter  had  become  the  victim  of  a  villain. 

Terrible,  indeed,  is  the  revenge  of  woman  when  deeply  wronged ; 
and  thus  it  was  with  Elvira.  She  wept  not,  for  her  soul  was  bent 
on  wreaking  vengeance  on  the  villainy  of  him,  who  had  basely 
betrayed  her.  She  sent  for  him,  and  he  came  with  a  smile  on  his 
countenance;  for  he  knew  not  yet,  that  his  cruelty  had  killed  her 
mother. 

"Behold,  base  man,"  she  cried,  "the  ruin  that  the  wrong  you 
have  done  me  has  caused.  Behold  the  corpse  of  my  sainted 
mother,  doomed  to  death  by  the  deception  you  have  practised.  I 
give  you  three  days  to  fulfil  your  solemn  vow  to  me;  and  if  on  the 
fourth  day  you  have  delayed  to  do  me  justice,  mark  me — the  knell 
of  my  revenge  shall  break  upon  your  ear,  like  a  clap  of  thunder  in 
a  clear  sky." 

The  young  man  uttered  not  a  word,  but  fled  from  a  scene  that 
he  had  little  expected  to  witness.  The  fourth  day  came,  and  Oli- 
ver had  paid  no  attention  to  the  warning  she  had  given.  He,  with 
his  wild  and  reckless  brother,  were  dissipating  time  as  gaily  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  little  knowing  the  determined  spirit  with 
whom  they  had  to  deal. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  evening  in  spring,  when  the  hills  of  Scot- 
land were  carpeted  with  green,  and  the  fields  redolent  with  flow- 
ers, that  with  Rosalie  and  Elvira,  I  had  been  to  pay  a  visit  to  a 
poor  cottager.  We  were  sauntering  along  the  road,  when,  to  the 
surprise  of  Rosalie  and  myself,  though  not  to  that  of  Elvira,  for 
she  expected  it;  Roland  and  his  brother  came  dashing  down  the 
road,  in  a  splendid  barouche,  with  two  horses.  What  followed 
was  the  work  of  a  moment. 

Elvira  sprang  into  the  road,  which  caused  them  to  draw  up, 
before  they  discovered  who  she  was;  and,  the  next  instant,  she 
drew  a  pistol,  which  she  had  concealed,  and  fired.  The  wretched 
young  man,  who  was  the  object  of  her  vengeance,  leaped  head 
foremost  from  the  carriage,  and  fell  on  the  road  at  her  feet. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  75 

"You  have  revenged  your  wrongs — I  am  a  dead  man!"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  turned  his  dying  eyes  upon  her,  and  expired. 

Alarmed  at  what  had  taken  place,  I  hurried  her  away;  and,  ere 
one  hour  had  elapsed,  we  were  on  the  road  towards  Liverpool, 
post-haste,  where  a  relative  of  my  wife  had  recently  died,  and  be* 
queathed  to  Rosalie  the  sum  of  three  thousand  pounds  sterling. 

On  our  arrival  at  Liverpool,  I  hastened  to  obtain  the  money,  and 
immediately  took  a  passage  for  America;  and  never  was  there  a 
happier  man  than  I  was,  when  the  white  cliffs  of  England  were 
receding  from  my  view;  for  I  felt  that  I  never  could  be  happy 
with  my  wife  in  the  presence  of  Roland,  whose  attempts  to  defeat 
and  injure  me,  had  been  made  known  to  me  by  my  wife.  On  the 
wide  waste  of  waters  I  felt  safe  and  happy;  for  we  were  going  to 
a  fair  land,  with  three  thousand  pounds,  which  would  lift  us  above 
the  frowns  of  the  world,  and  render  us  comfortable  in  our  new 
home.  Already  we  began  to  have  indications  that  the  home  we 
were  seeking  was  not  far  off,  and  we  all  rejoiced  in  the  prospect 
before  us. 

But,  alas!  who  can  tell  what  a  day  may  bring  forth?  We  had 
been  at  sea  four  weeks;  had  had  a  succession  of  delightful 
weather;  and,  when  almost  in  sight  of  the  happy  shores  of  Ame- 
rica, a  tremendous  storm  arose  at  night,  and  in  the  gloom  of  the 
tempest,  our  vessel  came  in  contact  with  another,  and  almost  im- 
mediately sunk. 

"To  the  boats,  to  the  boats!"  cried  the  captain  through  his 
trumpet,  which  was  scarcely  heard  above  the  raging  of  the  storm, 
and  the  awful  roaring  of  the  sea. 

I  started  to  run  below  in  search  of  my  money ;  but,  alas !  it  was  too 
late — the  vessel  was  sinking.  Scarcely  had  I  thrown  my  wife  and 
Elvira  in  the  boat,  ere  the  vessel  sunk.  One  wild  scream  that  still 
rings  in  my  ears,  was  heard;  and  I  found  myself  buffeting  with 
the  waves,  surrounded  by  a  number  of  drowning  victims.  Blessed 
with  "lusty  sinews,"  I  swam  to  the  boat,  and  was  saved.  Three 
days  without  food  or  water,  we  wandered  on  the  wide  waste  of 
waves;  but  on  the  fourth  a  sail  appeared  to  view,  which  proved  to 
be  a  vessel  bound  to  New  York. 

We  were  all  three  saved;  but  oh!  who  can  fancy  our  feelings, 
at  the  thought  that  nearly  all  we  possessed,  was  buried  in  the  deep. 
But  I  consoled  myself  that  none  of  us  had  perished. 

In  a  short  time,  we  arrived  at  New  York,  and  prepared  to  push 
into  the  wilderness;  for  I  now  saw  nothing  before  me  but  toil, 
though  I  might  yet  be  happy.  I  made  known  my  misfortune  to 


76  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  Governor  of  New  York,  who  was  a  distant  relative  of  my 
family;  he  directed  me  to  a  spot  where  I  might  settle,  though  he 
refused  to  loan  me  a  penny.  On  foot  we  trudged  into  the  then 
wilds  of  Pennsylvania,  where  we  found  the  Eden  of  our  hopes; 
and  where  I  reared  a  cottage,  to  which  Rosalie  and  Elvira  added 
a  beautiful  garden  for  vegetables  and  flowers. 

Hard,  indeed,  for  a  while,  was  the  life  we  led;  but  nature  will 
accommodate  herself  to  any  circumstances,  and  as  year  after  year 
rolled  by,  fortune  favored  us,  and  plenty  crowned  our  efforts. 
Four  lovely  children  blessed  us;  two  boys  and  two  girls,  beautiful 
as  their  mother  had  been,  ere  labor  and  the  sun  had  soiled  her 
charms.  Though  Rosalie  often  wept  at  the  recollection  of  her 
mother,  and  her  far  off  home  in  Scotland,  she  had  gradually  be- 
come reconciled,  and  even  happy — yes,  happy  in  the  possession 
of  the  smiling  children  around  her. 

Time  rendered  us  able  to  rear  a  beautiful  cottage,  and  to  culti- 
vate around  it  a  perfect  paradise.  The  Indians,  whose  friendship 
we  had  studiously  cultivated,  often  came  to  see,  and  to  admire  the 
happy  habitation  we  had  made  in  the  wilderness. 

When  I  had  reached  my  thirty-fifth  year,  six  prattling  children 
were  around  us,  and  my  eldest  were  able  to  assist  in  the  field,  and 
the  affairs  of  the  house;  and  never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  happier 
family.  Not  a  care  came  to  disturb  the  tranquillity  of  our  home  ; 
and,  by  economy,  I  had  laid  up  a  sufficiency  of  money  to  give  our 
first  daughter,  married,  a  handsome  portion.  I  had  collected  a 
library  from  the  neighboring  village,  and  our  leisure  hours  were 
spent  in  reading.  All  the  unhappy  past  was  now  forgotten,  for 
we  lived  a  new  life  in  the  lives  of  our  children. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

"  When  that  grim  foe  of  life  below 

Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part; 
The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 

It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  my  heart."— BURNS. 

)T  was  at  this  period  that  the  first  muttering  of  that  terrific 
storm,  which  afterwards  burst  on  devoted  America  with 
such  tremendous  fury,  was  heard.  ''Alas!  little  did  I 
know  of  the  horrors  that  were  in  gtore  for  me !  I  took 
no  part  in  the  quarrel  between  the, colonies  and  the  mother  coun- 
try; but  listened  in  silence  to  the  excited  language  of  the  people, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD   BARD.  77 

with  whom  business  threw  me  in  contact.  The  Stamp  Act  had 
roused  the  colonies  to  a  sense  of  their  condition,  and  of  the  ty- 
ranny of  England;  and  the  flame  of  discord  was  flashing  in  every 
direction. 

At  length  the  dreadful  storm  burst,  and  all  eyes  were  turned 
towards  Lexington,  where  the  first  blood  had  been  shed.  Still, 
while  all  ranks  rushed  to  war,  I.  remained  quiet  at  home,  resolved 
neither  to  favor  the  one  nor  the  other,  But  fate  had  resolved  that 
I  should  not  always  remain  thus  happy;  for  he,  who  had  been  my 
enemy  at  the  University  in  Edinburg,  had  come  to  America,  as 
a  colonel  in  the  British  army,  and  had  unfortunately  discovered 
my  retreat.  The  English  had  entered  into  a  treaty  with  the  In- 
dians, who  were  to  be  their  allies  against  the  Americans:  and  this 
circumstance,  which  I  fancied  would  be  my  security,  proved  my 
ruin,  and  blasted  my  happiness  forever.  I  shall  relate  the  first 
misfortune  which  befell  me,  and  even  now  my  soul  sickens  when 
I  think  of  it. 

A  young  officer  in  the  British  army,  had  seen,  and  had  fallen 
desperately  in  love,  with  my  eldest  daughter;  who  was  now  sixteen 
years  of  age,  and  as  exquisitely  beautiful,  in  the  formation  of  her 
features  and  the  symmetry  of  her  form  or  figure,  as  had  been  her 
mother  in  the  days  of  her  bloom.  Her  oval  face  was  moulded 
after  the  Grecian  models  of  beauty,  her  features  being  regular  and 
fully  developed,  over  which  an  intellectual  expression  played  like 
sunlight  upon  a  full-blown  rose,  giving  an  inexpressible  loveliness 
to  the  bloom  that  heightened  their  beauty.  Her  dark  eye  had  in 
it  the  dazzling  brilliance  of  the  diamond,  and  fascinated  the  behol- 
der with  a  spell  that  was  irresistible.  Her  figure  was  of  the  middle 
stature,  and  moved  with  a  quick,  light  step,  in  which  grace  and 
dignity  were  blended.  In  a  word,  I  might  describe  her  in  the 
sublime  language  of  Milton,  when  speaking  of  Eve : 

"Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  heav'n  in  her  eye; 
In  all  her  gestures  dignity  and  love." 

Oh!  how  the  pride  of  the  father  swelled  my  heart,  when  I  gazed 
upon  that  darling  daughter,  and  conversed  with  her  on  classic 
subjects;  for  I  had  devoted  much  time  to  the  pleasing  task  of  edu- 
cating my  children  in  the  higher  branches  of  learning,  until  they 
were  looked  upon  as  wonders  among  my  neighbors,  the  education 
of  whose  children  extended  no  further  than  the  simple  acquisition 
of  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic.  None  but  a  father  can  have 
any  conception  of  the  pride  and  pleasure  with  which  I  viewed  my 


78  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

children,  particularly  this  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter,  who 
displayed  talents,  beauty  and  grace,  calculated  to  shine  in  the 
courts  of  Europe,  and  to  adorn  and  dignify  any,circle  of  society. 
Oh  God !  how  my  heart  bleeds  with  sorrow — how  my  soul  shud- 
ders with  horror,  when  I  think  of  the  melancholy  fate  of  that 
idolized  and  lovely  daughter!  But  the  ways  of  Providence  are 
truly  mysterious,  and  I  have  learned  to  bow  to  His  decrees. 

As  observed  before,  a  young  English  officer  had  seen,  conversed 
with,  and  conceived  a  devoted  affection,  for  my  daughter,  named 
Rosalie,  in  honor  of  her  mother;  who,  to  do  her  only  common 
justice,  was  one  of  the  best  of  women.  Delancy,  the  lover  of  my 
child,  laid  siege  to  and  won  her  heart,  ere  we  were  aware  that  his 
attentions  arose  from  anything  else  than  mere  admiration  of  her 
talents  and  beauty,  and  the  agreeable  pastime  he  enjoyed  in  her 
society.  When  he  appealed  to  me  for  my  sanction  to  their  union, 
I  represented  to  him  that  he  was  a  stranger,  whose  character  and 
connections  I  knew  not,  and  that  the  life  he  led  would  for  the 
present  at  least,  render  it  impossible  for  me  to  consent. 

He  acknowledged  the  justice  of  my  refusal  with  so  much  candor, 
and  with  so  gentlemanly  a  bearing,  that  I  felt  an  interest  in  him, 
and  regretted  the  necessity  of  refusing  him  the  hand  of  my  daugh- 
ter, as  I  was  soon  fully  convinced  that  he  possessed  her  heart. 
For  a  time  I  heard  nothing  more  of  the  matter,  though  I  could 
plainly  perceive  the  effect  which  my  refusal  had  on  the  feelings  of 
Rosalie,  who  loved  Delancy  with  all  the  undying  constancy  of 
woman,  as  events  amply  proved. 

Rosalie  was  one  of  those  gentle,  confiding,  affectionate  and  obe- 
dient daughters,  who  had  never  pained  the  hearts  of  her  parents, 
in  her  life,  with  a  single  act  of  disobedience  until  the  occurrence 
of  the  one  which  I  am  about  to  describe,  and  for  which,  oh  God! 
she,  as  well  as  her  parents,  paid  so  dearly! 

Delancy  had  ceased  paying  his  visits  to  Rosalie  at  our  cottage; 
but  they  met,  without  our  knowledge,  at  the  house  of  a  neighbor, 
until  the  presence  of  American  soldiers  rendered  it  imperative  for 
him  to  cease  visiting  there.  But  his  fascinating  power  had  riveted 
irrevocably  the  chain  of  love  around  her  heart;  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  powerful  appeals  of  her  aunt,  Elvira,  and  the  gentle  admo- 
nitions of  her  mother,  she  in  vain  essayed  to  free  herself  from  the 
sweet  bondage — she  loved  on,  with  a  devotion  that  no  power  on 
earth  could  overcome.  When  Delancy  could  no  longer  visit  her, 
he  wrote  to  her  language  that  breathed  the  very  luxury  of  love; 
and  implored  her  to  fly  to  the  impatient  arms  of  him,  who  prized 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  79 

her  above  all  else  that  the  world  contained,  and  who  would  perish 
in  protecting  her  from  danger.  She  relied  upon  his  honor,  and 
her  reliance  was  not  misplaced;  for  Delancy  was  upright  in  his 
intentions,  and  loved  her  with  an  intensity  of  feeling  that  was  only 
surpassed  by  that  of  the  adoration  of  her  own  heart. 

Rosalie  secretly  resolved  to  follow  the  fortunes  of  him  who,  she 
was  satisfied,  would  act  an  honorable  part;  and  she  consoled  her- 
self, in  having  resolved  to  disobey  her  parents  and  forsake  her 
happy  home,  by  the  reflection  that  her  own  dear,  idolized  father, 
had  done  so  before  her.  According  to  her  determination,  it  was 
arranged  by  Delancy,  that  he  should  send  a  party  of  swift-footed 
Indian  allies,  who  should  convey  her  to  the  future  husband  of  her 
heart. 

It  was  at  that  season  of  the  year,  when  the  trees  of  the  forest 
were  in  full  bloom,  and  all  nature  was  decked  in  her  most  gaudy 
attire;  that  a  dozen  of  strong,  swift  Indians  were  despatched  to 
convey  her  to  the  British  camp ;  and  a  lovelier  night  never  shrouded 
the  world  in  silence.  The  full  moon  rose,  round  as  the  shield  of 
Ajax,  over  the  eastern  hills;  and  walked  up  the  great  hall  of  hea- 
ven with  all  the  brilliance  and  beauty  of  a  new  made  bride,  who 
comes  forth  to  meet  her  husband.  Rosalie,  with  a  throbbing  heart, 
had  retired  with  the  rest  of  the  family ;  but  not  to  rest.  She  packed 
up  her  clothes  in  readiness,  and  then  sat  down  at  the  window  to 
reflect  upon  the  daring  step  she  was  about  to  take,  which  might 
render  her  happy  or  forever  miserable.  Not  a  sound  disturbed 
the  tranquillity  of  the  scene  around  her,  which  was  full  of  bloom 
and  beauty;  but  she  was  too  much  excited;  too  much  absorbed 
in  the  contemplation  of  what  was  soon  to  take  place,  to  enjoy  the 
exquisite  charms  of  nature.  The  gay  birds  of  the  forest,  that  all 
day  long  had  poured  forth  their  song  of  joy,  had  retired  to  their 
nests;  and  the  myriads  of  insects,  that  had  hummed  in  the  sun- 
shine, were  now  silent — all  the  busy  tenants  of  the  world  had 
sunk  to  repose,  save  the  restless,  beating  little  heart  of  Rosalie. 

Hour  after  hour  of  anxious  suspense  passed,  and  still  sat  that 
fair  creature,  at  the  open  window,  gazing  at  the  moon :  while, 
ever  and  anon,  a  tide  of  tears  poured  over  the  roses  and  lilies  that 
bloomed  upon  her  cheeks — still  she  sat  listening  for  the  sound  of 
the  footsteps  of  the  dark-browed  children  of  the  forest,  to  whose 
care  was  to  be  entrusted  that  beautiful  creature,  who  was  the  idol 
and  the  angel  of  Delancy's  heart. 

At  length  a  sound  in  the  dim  distance  faintly  fell  upon  her  ear, 
and  she  started  to  her  feet  with  indescribable  emotions  of  mingled 


80  WHITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

pain  and  pleasure.  Again  she  listened.  She  could  not  be  mis- 
taken— it  was  indeed  the  signal,  which  the  terrific  messengers 
were  to  give.  Rosalie  hastily  snatched  the  bundle,  containing  her 
clothes,  and  descended  the  stairway,  with  a  soft  and  silent  step 
which  could  not  break  the  slumber  of  her  parents,  who,  alas! 
were  totally  unconscious  of  the  fatal  resolve  of  their  idolized 
daughter. 

When  she  reached  the  door,  she  turned,  with  tearful  eyes,  and 
bade  farewell  to  her  parents,  and  the  sacred  home  of  her  heart,  in 
the  shades  of  which  she  had  spent  the  happy  days  of  childhood;  in 
whose  halls  she  had  played  with  her  brothers  and  sisters;  and  in 
which  she  had  gradually  put  on  all  the  blushing  bloom  and  beauty 
of  womanhood.  Scarcely  had  she  performed  this  pious  act  of 
devotion,  ere  the  tall,  dusky  forms  of  the  Indians,  with  their  painted 
and  grotesque  faces,  appeared  in  the  yard  before  her. 

Startled  at  their  terrific  appearance,  she  motioned  them  to  be 
silent;  and  then  stole  into  the  apartment,  where  her  brothers  and 
sisters  were  locked  in  deep  slumber.  Approaching  the  bed,  where 
lay  her  little  sister,  the  youngest  and  the  interesting  pet  of  the 
family;  she  knelt  down,  tenderly  embraced  her,  and  imprinted  a 
fervent  kis«  upon  her  lips,  while  tears  of  regret  gushed  from  her 
eyes,  already  swollen  with  weeping. 

Returning  to  the  yard,  she  bade  a  last  farewell  to  the  home  of 
her  childhood,  where  she  had  known  nothing  but  unalloyed  hap- 
piness; and  then  gave  a  sign  to  the  Indians  that  she  was  ready  to 
follow  them  through  the  wild,  unfrequented  paths  of  the  forest. 
Undine,  the  leader  of  the  Indians,  gently  took  her  in  his  arms,  as 
a  father  would  lift  an  infant;  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  they  were 
buried  in  the  gloom  of  the  almost  boundless  forest.  Rosalie's 
heart  beat  quickly,  at  the  thought  of  him  who  was  anxiously  waiting 
for  her  arrival;  and,  in  the  happiness  of  hope,  little  did  that  beau- 
tiful creature  dream  of  the  awful  destiny  that  awaited  her — little 
did  she  dream  of  the  agony  that  was  to  follow  her  disobedience. 

Delancy,  impatient  and  anxious  to  clasp  in  his  arms  the  fair 
object  of  his  idolatry,  for  he  was  an  honorable  man,  and  loved 
Rosalie  with  an  intensity  that  amounted  to  adoration,  started  off 
in  the  direction  that  the  Indians  had  gone,  in  the  hopes  of  meeting 
them.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  machination  of  Colonel  Manley, 
who  hated  me  with  a  bitterness  that  nothing  could  extenuate  or 
appease.  He  was  aware  of  Delancy's  intention  to  marry  my 
daughter,  and  had  suggested  the  plan  of  sending  a  party  of  Indians 
to  conduct  her  to  his  arms. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  81 

After  the  first  party  had  left,  Manley  secretly  despatched  another 
company  of  Indians,  promising  them  a  handsome  reward  if  they 
would  take  her  from  her  conductors  and  bring  her  to  him,  he 
having  the  base  intention  of  seeking  her  ruin.  He  gave  them 
orders  to  take  her  dead  or  alive,  and  to  prepare  them  for  the  hor- 
rible alternative  of  imbruing  their  hands  in  the  blood  of  so  lovely 
a  creature,  or  of  conducting  her  to  his  salacious  embrace,  worse 
to  a  virtuous  woman  than  death  itself,  he  gave  them  liquor  freely, 
until  they  were  intoxicated  to  that  degree  which  arouses  the  tiger 
passions  of  the  heart. 

The  inebriated  Indians  departed,  with  the  assurance  that  they 
would  have  her  dead  or  alive ;  and  the  desperately  wicked  heart 
of  Manley  waited  to  receive  her  at  a  lonely  place  appointed,  or  to 
receive  the  scalp  of  her  long  beautiful  hair.  In  either  case,  he 
felt  that  his  malicious  heart  would  be  gratified.  He  would  either 
have  the  bleeding  memento  of  the  lovely  martyr,  or  have  the' beau- 
tiful Rosalie  in  his  power,  and  have  the  mean,  dastardly  triumph 
over  violated  virtue.  The  man  who  tramples  upon,  and  trifles  with 
the  affections  of  confiding  woman,  is  a  stranger  to  all  noble  and 
manly  principles  of  honor;  he  who  betrays  her  by  false  protesta- 
tions and  promiste,  is  a  base  villain;  but  for  him,  who  like  Colonel 
Manley,  seeks  by  stratagem  and  force  to  ruin  an  innocent  and 
beautiful  creature,  and  that,  too,  to  wreak  his  vengeance  on  another, 
there  is  no  epithet  in  the  catalogue  of  villainy  sufficiently  heinous 
to  characterize  him. 

In  the  course  of  the  night  the  second  party  of  Indians  returned 
to  the  secret  place,  designated  by  Colonel  Manley,  bearing  in 
their  hands  the  bloody  trophy.  Manley,  though  disappointed  at 
not  having  the  person  of  his  base  passion  in  his  power,  was  never, 
theless  gratified  at  the  unutterable  anguish  he  would  thus  send  to 
the  soul  of  him  whom  he  hated.  He  smilingly  paid  down  the  sum 
of  money  he  had  promised,  and  received  into  his  hands  the  beau- 
tiful hair  which  hung  in  clustering  curls,  and  was  lovely  even  as  a 
bloody  scalp. 

The  Indians  employed  by  Delancy  returned  to  inform  him  that 
they  had  been  met  by  the  other  party  on  their  way  with  the  fair 
Rosalie  in  their  arms,  when  the  object  of  their  solicitude  was 
demanded,  that  they  resolutely  refused  the  demand,  and  that  an 
altercation  ensued.  During  a  severe  battle,  Rosalie  was  murdered, 
and  her  scalp  carried  away  in  triumph. 

The  grief  of  Delancy,  who  met  the  Indians  at  a  short  distance, 
knew  no  bounds.  In  his  despair  he  rent  his  garments,  and  acted 
11 


82  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

like  a  man  bereft  of  his  senses.  Not  less  was  the  heart-rending 
grief  that  was  carried  to  every  bosom  in  my  hitherto  happy  cottage, 
where  sorrow  had  been  a  stranger,  and  where  death  had  never 
entered.  All  had  been  sunshine  in  our  joyous  circle ;  and  now, 
when  the  cruel  intelligence  came  that  our  idolized  and  lovely 
daughter  had  been  murdered  by  the  Indians,  for  we  knew  not  yet 
that  Manley  had  been  the  instigator  of  the  bloody  deed,  dreadful 
and  miserable  indeed,  were  its  effects.  My  poor  wife,  under  the 
blow,  fell  into  a  severe  spell  of  sickness,  and  into  a  state  bordering 
on  insanity.  For  a  length  of  time,  I  looked  upon  her  death  as  in- 
evitable, and  gave  myself  up  to  unavailing  despair.  Oh!  the  recol- 
lection of  that  heart-breaking  event  still  harrows  up  my  soul,  and 
the  tears  of  anguish  are  now  streaming  while  I  write. 

My  wife  and  her  sister  Elvira,  who  were  both  prostrated  by  the 
fall  of  Rosalie,  after  unheard  of  suffering,  at  last  recovered  suffi- 
ciently to  resume  their  duties;  but  the  cloud  of  despair,  that 
gathered  on  their  brows,  was  never  removed.  They  were  never 
after  seen  to  smile. 

The  most  cruel  and  unrelenting  heart  would  suppose  that  the 
murder  of  Rosalie  was  sufficient  atonement  to  satisfy  the  most 
malicious  and  revengeful  heart,  but  it  did  not,  as  I  shall  relate 
hereafter.  The  wicked  soul  of  Colonel  Manley  yet  panted  for  an 
opportunity  more  fully  to  gratify  his  hatred  towards  me,  and  to 
revenge  the  fall  of  his  guilty  brother. 

Oh!  what  a  change  had  taken  place  in  our  cottage!  But  a 
short  time  before,  the  merry  voice  of  the  younger  Rosalie  rivalled 
the  mocking  bird  in  its  song,  that  rung  through  our  happy  halls; 
and,  from  morning  till  night,  nothing  was  heard  but  the  sounds  of 
mirth  and  joy.  Now  that  sweet  voice  was  hushed,  and  every  eye 
was  weeping — every  bosom  heaving  the  deep  groan  of  anguish  and 
despair. 

The  death  of  Rosalie  had  proved  too  much  for  the  noble  soul 
of  Delancy  to  bear — he  had  sunk  under  the  infliction  of  such 
misery,  and  had  become  hopelessly  deranged.  He  rared,  and 
called  upon  the  name  of  his  butchered  bride,  but  he  called  in  vain. 
None  can  realize  the  sorrow  of  Delancy,  but  those  who  have  had 
the  cup  of  bliss  dashed  from  their  lips,  just  as  they  were  tasting 
the  delicious  draught.  His  soul  of  honor  could  not  bear  the  be- 
reavement, and  sinking  under  the  severe  blow,  he  pined  in  phy- 
sical health,  while  reason  lay  in  melancholy  ruins.  Of  all  the 
afflictions  that  man  is  heir  to,  derangement  of  mind  is  the  most 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  83 

severe  as  well  as  the  most  to  be  deplored  and  pitied.     In  the  lan- 
guage of  the  celebrated  Dr.  Watts, 

"Were  I  so  tall  as  t'  reach  the  pole, 

Or  measure  ocean  with  a  span; 
I  must  be  measured  by  my  soul, — 
The  mind's  the  standard  of  the  man." 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

"  Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 
Makes  countless  thousands  mourn."— B 


lURNS. 

EVERE  as  was  the  effect  of  the  fate  of  Rosalie  on  me, 
I  soon  verified  the  truth  of  the  trite  proverb,  that  misfor- 
tunes seldom  come  alone.  The  malignity  of  Manley 
knew  no  bounds,  and  he  was  busy  in  inventing  plans  for 
my  destruction,  nor  did  he  fail  at  last  in  his  wicked  design.  My 
heart  bleeds  afresh,  while  I  record  the  fiendish  plan — the  way  in 
which  he  effected  my  ruin.  Oh!  memory,  memory,  how  pleasing 
art  thou  to  those  who  dwell  on  departed  days  and  scenes  of  bliss, 
but  to  me  thou  art  dreadful!  Thou  remindest  me  of  happiness, 
only  to  render  me  more  wretched  by  the  recollection  of  hours  of 
heart-breaking  agony,  and  scenes  that  make  my  soul  shudder 
while  I  recall  and  record  them. 

At  the  period  of  which  I  write,  the  Indians,  encouraged  by  the 
British,  were  wreaking  their  vengeance  on  the  unprotected  deni- 
zens of  the  wilderness.  Their  hands  were  reeking  with  the  gore 
of  the  aged  and  the  innocent,  while  midnight  glittered  with  the 
blaze  of  burning  homes,  and  the  forest  echoed  the  shrieks  of  the 
assailed  and  the  yells  of  the  assailants.  Oh  God!  terrific  indeed 
were  the  bloody  scenes  that  occurred;  scenes  sufficient  to  melt 
the  heart  of  a  demon! 

It  was  in  Autumn,  that  melancholy  season  of  the  year,  when 
the  falling  leaves,  and  the  general  decay  of  nature,  reminds  us  of 
the  doom  of  mortality — that  season  so  typical  of  age,  when  man 
is  admonished  that  the  shadows  of  evening  are  lengthening,  and 
that  ere  long,  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  he  will  fall — that  I  was 
under  the  necessity  of  going  to  a  distant  town,  on  business  of  im- 
portance, that  could  not  be  delayed  or  neglected.  As  I  had  never 


84  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

taken  part  in  the  warfare  between  the  colonies  and  the  mother 
country,  I  considered  my  family  perfectly  safe  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
British,  and  departed  on  my  journey  on  horseback  without  a 
single  fear. 

I  was  leisurely  riding  along  a  road  not  much  frequented,  in  the 
depth  of  the  then  almost  interminable  forest,  and  was  sadly  musing 
on  the  fate  of  my  dearly  beloved  daughter,  Rosalie,  when  I  was 
suddenly  recalled  to  consciousness  by  the  tramp  of  a  horse  among 
the  fallen  leaves,  and  looking  up,  I  beheld  the  demon  whom  I  now 
hated  as  much  as  he  had,  and  still  hated  me.  I  recognized,  at  the 
first  glance,  my  old  rival  at  Edinburg. 

"Villain!"  said  Manley,  "we  are  well  met  in  this  solitary  wil- 
derness, and  you  shall  see  how  soon  and  how  easily  I  can  rid  the 
world  of  a  scoundrel,  and  the  murderer  of  my  brother;"  and 
he  bore  down  upon  me  full  tilt,  sword  in  hand,  though  I  was 
unarmed,  save  with  a  heavy  hickory  stick,  which  I  had  fancied  and 
cut  for  a  cane. 

"A  villain  be  the  victim  then,"  I  said,  as  he  struck  at  me  a  tre- 
mendous blow,  which  must  have  sent  me  reeling  from  the  saddle, 
had  I  not  parried  it  with  the  stick ;  and  the  broken  sword  rung,  as 
a  part  fell  quivering  on  the  ground. 

In  an  instant  I  leaped  to  the  earth,  as  he  drew  from  his  holster  a 
pistol,  and,  levelling  it,  drew  the  trigger.  But  fortunately  it  missed 
fire,  and  ere  he  could  re-fix  it  or  draw  from  the  holster  the  other, 
I  flew  at  him  like  an  enraged  tiger,  and  with  a  well  aimed  blow 
felled  him  to  the  ground.  Disdaining  to  triumph  over  a  fallen  foe, 
and' not  wishing  to  have  the  stain  of  murder  upon  me,  for  I  did 
not  yet  know  him  to  be  the  murderer  of  my  daughter,  I  leaped 
upon  my  horse,  ere  he  revived,  and  fled. 

From  that  hour  he  swore  vengeance  against  me,  and  that  he  ful- 
filled his  oath,  oh  God !  how  miserable  a  witness  was  I  afterwards 
made!  How  bitterly  did  I  have  to  deplore  that  vengeance! 

Owing  to  the  tedious  transaction  of  some  important  business,  I 
was  detained  from  home  nearly  a  week.  Having  accomplished  it, 
I  hastened  home  with  all  speed,  anxious  to  look  once  more  upon 
my  wife  and  children,  who  were  dearer  to  me  than  life  itself.  I 
had  never  before  remained  from  home  so  long,  and  none  but  a 
husband  and  father  can  appreciate  the  blissful  feelings  of  my  heart, 
as  I  passed  through  the  last  skirt  of  woodland,  and  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  home,  that  happiest  spot  on  earth,  though  it  be 
in  the  wilderness  or  in  the  desert.  My  mind  was  occupied  with 
the  thought  of  the  joy  of  my  children,  particularly  my  youngest, 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  85 

when  they  should  behold  the  toys  and  other  presents  I  had  pur- 
chased for  them.  I  fancied  the  joy  I  should  feel  when  my  wife 
should  meet  me  with  her  accustomed  fascinating  smile,  and  when 
my  children  should  gather  around  me,  contending  for  the  first  kiss. 
Though  I  had  lost  one,  the  eldest  daughter,  I  was  still  the  happy 
father  of  a  number  of  as  lovely  cherubs  as  ever  blest  a  parent. 
My  heart  swelled  with  indescribable  emotions,  as  I  ascended  the 
hill  that  hid  my  cottage  from  my  view. 

As  I  ascended  the  hill,  I  wondered  that  no  one  was  on  the  look- 
out for  my  approach.  Never  had  I  returned  home  before,  without 
seeing  one  or  more  watching  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  for  my  com- 
ing. But  oh!  God  of  mercy!  when  I  had  reached  the  summit,  the 
soul-sickening  truth  flashed  upon  my  mind.  There  lay  my  cottage 
in  undistinguishable  ruins,  a  heap  of  ashes,  among  which  an  In- 
dian that  I  knew,  was  looking  for  pieces  of  money  and  other  things 
of  value  that  the  flames  could  not  devour.  My  heart  sunk  within 
me;  I  felt  as  if  I  had  received  a  deadly  blow  upon  my  brain,  and 
I  fell  insensible,  to  the  ground.  When  I  recovered  my  senses, 
the  Indian  was  bathing  my  brow,  and  I  asked,  with  a  breaking 
heart,  for  my  wife  and  children.  He  pointed  to  the  ruins,  and 
again  I  fainted.  After  a  time,  he  related  that  Colonel  Manley  had 
instigated  the  Indians  to  do  the  cruel  deed.  I  searched  among  the 
ruins  for  the  bones  of  my  beloved,  but  I  could  only  find  small  frag- 
ments, there  having  been  burnt  with  the  building  so  much  bacon 
and  beef,  that  the  intensity  of  the  heat  must  have  been  very  great. 

Oh !  who  can  describe  the  agony  I  felt,  when  the  thought  came 
into  my  mind  of  the  pangs  of  my  poor  wife  and  children,  when 
broiling  in  the  flames!  God  of  heaven!  how  great  were  the  ago- 
nies I  suffered,  while  I  surveyed  the  small  pieces  of  bone,  that  I 
picked  from  the  ashes,  and  wondered  whether  they  were  those  of 
my  dear  wife,  or  to  which  one  of  my  darling  children  they  be- 
longed! Oh!  what  years  of  misery  did  I  endure  in  that  brief 
period  when,  in  thought,  I  called  them  up  before  me. 

Grief  is  conducive  to  sleep,  and  in  dreams  that  night,  as  I  lay 
among  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  my  wife  and  children  were  again 
gathered  around  me,  and  again  I  pressed  them  to  my  bosom  in 
joy,  as  in  the  happy  days  that  were  gone  forever.  Oh !  in  dreams 
did  my  dear  little  prattling  boy,  the  idol  of  my  heart,  climb  my 
knee  again  to  snatch  the  envied  kiss;  again  I  met  the  sweet  smile 
of  Rosalie,  and  pressed  her  angelic  form  to  my  bosom  in  bliss 
untold;  but  oh  horror!  I  awoke  to  a  full  sense  of  my  misery  and 
forlorn  condition — I  awoke  to  look  upon  the  ruin  of  all  my  hopes. 


86  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

I  awoke  to  a  realization  of  blasted  bliss,  and  to  the  lonely,  heart- 
sickening  consciousness  that  I  was  alone  in  the  world,  with 
nothing  to  love  me,  or  to  love.  Oh!  yes,  I  awoke  to  behold  my 
happy  home  a  heap  of  rubbish,  among  which  were  the  relics  of 
those  I  had  loved  more  than  life,  and  to  restore  whom  I  would 
freely  have  suffered  a  thousand  deaths.  My  grief  was  so  great  that 
I  could  not  weep,  and  yet  my  heart  was  ready  to  burst.  But  my 
tears  are  now  flowing  freely,  while  I  write  the  recollection  of  that 
heart-rending  scene,  in  which  I  was  suddenly  bereft  of  all  that  I 
loved  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Never,  since  that  hour  in 
which  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  world,  have  I  known  a  moment 
of  bliss.  From  that  hour  I  vowed  revenge.  Yes,  I  knelt  down 
on  the  burning  bosom  of  my  home!  upon  the  fiery  tomb  of  my 
family,  my  heart's  beloved,  and  swore  that  I  would  avenge  their 
horrible  death — that  I  would  never  rest,  until  I  had  revenged  their 
fall  in  the  blood  of  their  dastard  destroyer. 

The  Indian  informed  me  of  the  author  of  the  deed,  which  de- 
prived me  of  all  I  held  dear;  and,  also,  that  Manley  had  been  the 
instigator  of  the  doom  of  my  daughter,  Rosalie.  Was  not  the 
fate  of  my  daughter  sufficient  to  arouse  the  spirit  of  revenge  in  a 
father's  heart?  Was  it  not  sufficient,  without  the  addditional  in- 
jury of  the  ruin  of  my  whole  family? 

As  I  stood  upon  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  look  the  last  view  of 
that  ruined  home,  where  I  had  enjoyed  so  much  real  happiness, 
my  eyes  filled,  for  the  first  time,  wilh  tears,  and  I  felt  that  I  was 
indeed,  a  blasted  man.  I  felt  that  there  was  no  more  happiness 
for  me  in  this  world,  bereft  as  I  was  of  every  one  in  whose  veins 
my  blood  ran.  Oh!  with  what  a  forlorn,  soul-sickening  sensation, 
did  I  turn  to  leave  that  spot  for  ever.  Never  can  I  forget  my  feel- 
ings at  that  sad  moment. 

The  land,  on  which  my  cottage  last  stood,  was  my  own.  I 
sold  it  to  a  neighbor  on  certain  conditions,  and  resolved  to  join 
the  American  army,  that  I  might  have  the  better  opportunity  in 
battle,  to  meet  my  enemy  and  gratify  my  revenge.  But  I  soon 
saw  that  I  could  render  more  service  by  following  the  army,  and 
gaining  intelligence  by  means  of  disguise,  in  the  art  of  which 
few  could  excel  me.  I  had  been  a  member,  while  at  the  Univer- 
versity  of  Edinburg,  of  a  company  of  amateur  players;  and  melo- 
dramas being  the  principal  plays  we  performed,  I  took  parts  that 
were  romantic  and  uncouth,  by  which  I  acquired  the  art  of  so 
completely  disguising  myself,  that  few  would  have  suspected  my 
transformation. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  87 

I  followed  the  American  army  wherever  it  went,  and  lived  but 
in  the  hope  of  meeting  in  battle,  the  object  of  my  revenge.  My 
soul  burned  for  vengeance.  My  injuries  had  been  so  great,  that 
forbearance  had  ceased  to  be  a  virtue,  and  though  I  felt  that  re- 
venge was  an  ignoble  passion,  yet  without  that  thirst  for  vengeance 
which  was  burning  in  my  heart,  I  should  have  spurned  life  and 
sought  the  quietude  of  the  grave ;  for  oh !  when  I  thought  of  what 
the  Indian  had  told  me,  of  the  manner  in  which  Manley  had 
blasted  my  happiness,  my  soul  was  on  fire.  When  I  thought  of 
the  cruelties  he  practised,  in  hiring  the  Indians  at  midnight  hour 
to  fasten  the  doors  and  windows  of  my  cottage,  and  burn  my 
family  alive — when  in  fancy,  I  heard  their  screams,  and  their  pray- 
ers to  be  spared  from  so  cruel  a  death-^when  in  imagination,  I 
saw  the  reality  of  my  cottage  in  a  blaze,  and  my  poor  wife,  with 
uplifted  hands,  imploring  mercy,  while  the  crackling  flames  were 
gathering  around  her.  When,  musing,  I  saw  my  children 
crying  for  help,  and  my  poor  little  darling  boy  writhing  in  the  fire, 
the  revengeful  spirit  of  a  demon  actuated  my  heart,  and  I  longed  for 
the  hour  when  I  should  be  the  blood-stained  avenger  of  my  mur- 
dered family.  Would  to  Heaven  that  I  had  reached  home  when  the 
deed  was  done,  that  I  might  have  died  in  defence  of  my  beloved — 
that  I  might  have  revenged  the  wrong,  and  perished  on  the  pyre 
of  my  shrieking  family!  Oh!  what  years  of  solitary  anguish  might 
I  have  thus  escaped!  What  an  age  of  heart-wrung  grief  would 
have  been  spared  me.  But  it  seemed  that  a  life  of  misfortune  was 
mine,  and  that,  with  much  of  real  bliss,  I  was  doomed  to  endure 
much  of  anguish,  almost  too  severe  for  human  endurance.  Would 
to  heaven  that  the  memory  of  the  past  were  a  sealed  book!  Oh! 
that  the  recollection  of  my  past  life  could  be  obliterated  from  the 
desert  waste  of  memory  forever!  My  heart,  that  once  beat  high 
with  hope  and  was  illumined  with  the  light  of  love,  has  now 
become  the  tomb  of  affection,  in  which  are  inurned  the  ashes  of 
my  dear  departed  wife  and  little  ones,  the  remembrance  of  whom 
harrows  up  my  soul.  Life  is  indeed  a  desert  now  to  me.  I  see 
no  hope,  no  happiness  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  I  have  nothing 
to  bind  me  to  life,  no  pursuit  in  this  world  but  revenge,  and  never 
will  I  rest  till  I  have  avenged  the  ruin  of  my  race.  From  my  own 
countrymen  and  kindred  I  have  received  nothing  but  wrongs,  from 
my  cradle  to  the  present  hour;  while  among  strangers,  in  this 
land,  I  have  found  friends,  who  sympathised  in  my  sorrows,  and 
sought  to  bind  up  my  bleeding  heart.  I  will  therefore,  strike  for 
the  liberty  they  are  fighting  for,  while  I  wreak  my  vengeance  on 


88  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

those  who  have  wronged  me,  particularly  Manley,  whose  mean 
and  cowardly  attacks  have  blasted  me  forever.  When  I  have  seen 
my  hands  reeking  with  his  blood,  I  shall  be  willing  to  die.  When 
I  have  seen  this  lovely  land  freed  from  the  yoke  of  her  enemy,  I 
shall  be  satisfied,  and  not  till  then. 


V 


*< 
CHAPTER   XIV. 

"  Cry  havoc !  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war. 
That  this  foul  deed'  sJfall  *mel>  above  the  earth, 
Groaning  with  carrion  men1  fttr  burial."— -^HAKSPEARE. 

DR  some  time  I  followed  the  army  of  Washington  with- 
out being  noticed,  save  by  some  few,  who  could  not 
avoid  observing  my  impetuous  career  in  battle,  for  I 
rushed  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  and  the  enemy  fell 
before  my  fearless  arm .  lik»  wheat  before  the  cradler's  scythe. 
What  did  I  care,  for  danger  or  death!  All  that  I  loved  were  dead! 
I  felt  that  I  was  alqne  in  the  world,  and  made  a  hermit  by  my 
fellow-man,  and  I  fought  like  an  enraged  tigress  robbed  of  her 
young  ones. 

At  the  battle  of  Brandywine  my  daring  achievements  were  no- 
ticed by  many,  for  I  was  ever  seeking  the  object  of  my  revenge, 
and  in  the  hope  of  meeting  Manley  hand  to  hand,  for  I  scorned 
meanly  to  take  the  advantage  of  him,  I  dealt  death  to  every  one 
who  opposed  my  progress.  Several  times  he  went  by  me,  like 
lightning  on  his  splendid  charger,  and  I  struck  at  him,  but  was 
unnoticed.  When  the  British  and  Americans  were  desperately 
fighting  at  the  crossing-place,  called  Chadd's  Ford,  and  a  bridge 
had  been  made  of  dead  bodies,  I  struck  at  Manley  a  terrible  blow 
and  unhorsed  him,  but  ere  I  could  deal  death  to  him,  the  tide  of 
war  rolled  onward  and  I  lost  sight  of  him,  not  however  without 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  I  had  wounded  him,  for  a  stream 
of  blood  was  pouring  down  his  face. 

The  battle  ended,  and  I  felt  dejected,  dispirited,  I  had  not  ac- 
complished the  sacrifice  to  the  manes  of  my  murdered  family. 
Every  hour  I  thirsted  more  for  revenge.  I  had  the  gratification, 
however,  to  hear  that  Colonel  Manley  had  been  seriously  wounded, 
and  my  heart  leaped  with  the  first  impulse  of  joy  I  had  felt  since 
I  had  gazed  on  the  ruin  of  all  that  I  held  dear.  I  still  lived  in 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  89 

hope  that  I  should  yet  be  crowned  with  success  in  avenging  those 
who  perished  in  the  flames  of  my  cottage. 

When  the  army  of  Washington  came  here  into  winter-quarters, 
I  resolved  to  make  my  habitation  also  at  Valley  Forge,  and  by 
chance,  while  wandering  in  the  forest,  I  discovered  this  cave. 
Here  I  made  my  lonely  home,  so  suitable  to  my  forlorn  feelings; 
and  as  the  British  army  was  quartered  in  Philadelphia,  I  deter- 
rtine'd,  by  means  of  disguise  and  by'playing  the  wizard,  to  render 
all  the  assistance  in  my  power  to  Washington,  by  communicating 
to  him  the  plans  of  the  enemy.  Several  times,  when  disguised 
and  among  the  British,  did  I  escape  by  a  miracle.  Once  by  the 
powers  of  ventriloquism  that  I' possessed,  I  saved  myself.  With 
the  family  of  Summers^  fr.om  whose  treachery  I  saved  Washing- 
ton, I  became  acquainted  by  mere  accident,  while  wandering 
about  Philadelphia  as  an  Englishman  just  arrived.  By  my  daring 
disguises  I  have  been  enabled  to  render  much  service,  and  hope 
to  render  more.  While  here,  at  Valley  Forge,  I  have  become 
warmly  attached  to  Captain  Danvers  and  his  amiable  wife,  Nora, 
who,  in  her  devotion  to  her  woundetHiusband,  reminds  me  of  my 
poor  unfortunate  wife  in  her  younger  days.  I  must  have  some- 
thing to  love,  and  on  them  I  have  fixed  mj  affections.  Their 
difficulties  and  distresses  I  deeply  sympathise  in,  for  they  remind 
me  of  my  own.  But  fpr  me,  they  must  have  suffered  more  anguish 
than  they  have  known  already,  v 

To-morrow,  the  army  leaves  Valley  Forge  to  enter  on  a  new 
campaign,  and  I  shall  follow,  that  I  may  finally  accomp'ish  my 
revenge,  and  assist  in  achieving  that  liberty  which  so  brave  and 
hospitable  a  people  deserve.  Should  I  ever  live  to  return  to  Valley 
Forge,  and  to  this  cave,  I  shall  resume  this  history  of  my  life. 


Here,  in  the  n&nuscript  of  the  mysterious  man,  was  a  space,  and  when  he 
commenced  agsrfn,  it  was  with  ink  of  a  different  shade. 


IK)  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER     XV. 

"  The  storm  of  war  is  past,  and  peace,  once  more, 
Smiles  on  Columbia's  green  and  glorious  shore." 

HAVE  returned,  and  set  down  once  more  in  this  cave ; 
and  here  will  I  finish  my  narrative.  The  stormy  war  is 
ended,  and  the  glorious  flag  of  freedom  is  triumphant,  a 
happy  people  are  blest  at  last  with  liberty !  Immortal 
honor  to  the  name  of  George  Washington,  who  achieved  it! 

When  I  left.  Valley  Forge  with  the  army,  I  felt  a  pleasure,  if  I 
have  ever  known  what  pleasure  was  since  my  misfortunes,  I  say  I 
felt  pleasure  at  seeing  Captain  Danvers  once  more  upon  his  feet, 
and  his  wife  smiling  at  his  side,  after  having  suffered  unheard  of 
privations  and  sorrows.  He  was  ready  again  to  meet  the  enemies 
of  his  country  in  battle,  and  she  to  follow  his  fortunes,  and  minister 
to  him  in  the  hour  of  anguish  or  of  sickness ;  and  many  an  hour 
of  anguish  did  that  devoted  woman  suffer  for  his  sake. 

At  the  battle  of  Monmouth  I  anxiously  expected  to  meet  again 
the  man  by  whose  cruelty  I  had  been  made  wretched.  And  during 
the  conflict  we  did  meet,  and  long  and  bloody  was  the  contest  be- 
tween us,  but  just  as  I  was  in  the  act  of  despatching  him,  I  was 
furiously  attacked  by  a  young  man,  whom  I  recognized  as  Charles 
Moreland,  the  apostate  brother  of  Nora,  by  marriage  to  her  sister, 
Charlotte  Summers.  In  cleaving  him  to  the  earth,  Llost  sight  of 
my  bitter  foe,  and  night  coming  on,  the  battle  ceased.  That  night 
the  Americans  slept  upon  their  arms,  intending  to  renew  the  con- 
flict on  the  morrow;  but  when  the  morning  dawned,  the  enemy 
had  fled.  Clinton,  fearful  of  a  second  attack,  had  decamped 
during  the  night,  and  passed  on  through  Middletown  to  Sandy 
Hook,  and  finally  to  New  York. 

I  now  purchased  a  splendid  horse  with  a  part  of  the  proceeds 
of  my  land,  and  followed  the  army  as  close  as  a  shadow  follows 
its  substance.  In  every  engagement  my  eye  was  ever  seeking  one 
object.  He  occupied  my  mind  by  day  and  by  night,  but  I  did  not 
meet  him  in  combat,  until  the  battle  of  the  Cowpens  took  place 
in  South  Carolina.  We  met  during  the  heat  of  the  battle,  and  in- 
stantly recognized  each  other.  Furious  indeed  was  the  onset — 
terrible  was  the  conflict.  My  horse  seemed  to  be  actuated  by  the 
same  fiery  spirit  that  burned  in  the  bosom  of  his  rider,  and  at  the 
first  blow,  the  blood  gushed  from  us  both.  We  both  wheeled  at 
the  same  moment,  and  came  up  again  with  the  velocity  of  a 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  91 

whirlwind.'  At  the  second  blow  I  missed  him,  by  a  plunge  of  my 
horse,  and  reeled  on  my  saddle.  He  wheeled  suddenly,  to  repeat 
the  blow  ere  I  could  recover;  but  I  parried  the  stroke,  and  dealt 
him  a  tremendous  one  upon  the  head.  My  sword  wrung  like  a 
shivered  glass  vessel.  As  we  wheeled  again,  I  drew  a  pistol  from 
my  holster  and  fired.  The  ball  struck  him  on  the  face,  and  carried 
away  part  of  his  cheek.  This  unhorsed  him,  and  he  fell,  dead  as 
I  supposed,  to  the  ground.  In  the  joy  of  the  moment  I  leaped 
from  my  horse  to  triumph  over  the  success  of  my  revenge,  for  we 
were  now  some  distance  from  the  contending  hosts  of  Tarleton 
and  Morgan;  but  what  was  my  surprise,  when  Colonel  Manley 
leaped  from  the  ground  and,  like  a  wolf  covered  with  blood  and 
his  teeth  gnashing  with  rage,  rushed  upon  me  with  more  fury  than 
before.  Hand  to  hand  the  fight  between  us  was  renewed,  but  so 
nearly  equal  were  we  in  the  use  of  the  sword,  that  for  some  time 
neither  had  the  advantage.  But  the  longer  the  contest  continued, 
the  more  savage  did  each  become,  till  we  foamed  at  the  mouth 
like  two  mad  animals,  and  both  were  covered  with  blood  and  dust. 
A  cut  on  my  head  filled  my  eyes  with  gore,  while  I  had  given  my 
antagonist  a  thrust  that  had  severed  a  blood  vessel,  and  the  purple 
current  was  pouring  forth  profusely.  At  length  we  both  became 
so  weak,  from  the  loss  of  blood  and  the  long  continued  contest, 
that  we  could  scarcely  stand,  and  with  a  horrible  expression  of 
countenance,  he  at  last  staggered  and  fell  fainting  on  the  ground. 
I  rushed  upon  him,  to  despatch  him;  but  I  could  not  strike  a 
prostrate  foe,  though  he  had  so  basely  murdered  my  family. 

In  the  meantime  the  brave  Morgan  had  defeated  the  British, 
and  taken  five  hundred  prisoners,  with  all  the  artillery  and  bag- 
age  of  the  enemy.  Oh!  how  my  heart  leaped  with  joy,  when  I 
beheld  Colonel  Manley  my  prisoner;  and  how  did  he  groan  with 
anguish,  when  he  discovered  that  he  was  in  my  power!  His 
wailing,  however,  was  of  no  avail,  and  I  watched  him  with  the 
eyes  of  Argus,  least,  by  some  means  he  should  escape,  for  my 
vengeance  was  not  yet  consummated, 


92  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER     XVI. 

"  Such  tWs  my  life's  deceitful  morning ; 

Such  the  pleasures  I  enjoyed; 
Hut  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  storming 
'•''    A'  niy  flowery  bliss  destroy'd. 

Tho'  fickle  fortune  has  deceived  me, 
j*  .    .     She  promis'd  fair,  and  perform 'd  but  ill; 

Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereav'd  me, 
*-,         1  bear  a  heart  shall  support  me  still."— BDRNS. 

/EVER  was  a  human  heart  prouder  of  a  conquest  than 
was  mine,  when  I  looked  upon  my  captive;  and  never 
did  a  mind  experience  stronger  contending  emotions 
than  did  mine,  whilst  musing  upon  the  ruin  of  my  race, 
brought  about  by  him  who  was  now  in  my  power.  We  felt  to- 
wards each  other  as  did  Tamerlane  and  Bajazet,  renowned  on  the 
pages  of  story.  Sleeping  or  waking,  Colonel  Manley  alone 
occupied  rfty  mind.  How  I  should  wreak  my  vengeance  upon  him, 
who  "of  many  a  joy  and  hope"  had  truly  "bereaved  me,"  was  my 
constant  thought,  by  day  and  by  night ;  and  I  felt  th'e  bitterness 
of  anguish  least  he  should  escape  my  revenge,  when  I  thought  of 
the  brilliant  hopes,  of  the  Eden  of  bliss,  which  he  had  malevo- 
lently blasted.  In  the  language  of  Ossian,  I  felt  the  "joy  of  grief," 
at  the  prospect  before  me  of  making  him  taste  of  the  same  over- 
flowing cup  of  agony,  that  with  a  demon's  hand,  he  had  held  to 
my  lips,  until  I  had  drained  it  to  the  very  dregs.  And  that  the 
cup  he  prepared  for  me  was  bitter,  ever)  heart,  alive  to  the  hner 
sensibilities  of  human  nature,  will  readily  acknowledge.  Oh!  yes, 
bitter,  bitter  indeed. 

Though  Manley  was  humbled,  and  meanly  stooped  to  beg  his 
life,  he  still  secretly  hated  me. 

"How  base,  how  passing  base,"  said  I  to  him  one  morning, 
when  he  hinted  that  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  show  my  magnanim- 
ity, "must  be  the  man  who  meanly  begs  a  favor,  and  pleads  for 
the  magnanimity  of  one,  whose  hopes  and  happiness  he  has  utter- 
ly blasted!  How  base,  how  bereft  of  every  generous  impulse,  and 
every  noble  sentiment,  must  be  the  wretch,  who  stoops  to  beg  his 
life  from  the  mercy  of  him  whose  life  he  has  made  a  blank,  and 
embittered  by  his  cruelty,  and  to  whose  desolate  heart  he  has 
made  the  world  a  wilderness!  Manley,  you  are  mean  indeed,  to 
talk  of  magnanimity.  Was  it  magnanimous  to  imbrue  your  cursed 
hands  in  the  blood  of  my  innocent,  helpless  daughter?  Was  it 
magnanimous  to  bid  the  scalping-knife  of  the  Indian  reek  with 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  93 

M 

the  gore  of  a  beautiful  woman,  whose  very  helplessness  should 
have  demanded  your  protection  ?  Was  it  magnanimous  to  wreak 
your  vengeance  on  my  innocent  and  unprotected  family,  and  to 
behold  my  poor  wife  and  children  broiling  in  the  flames  of  my 
home,  while  their  cries  and  imploring  prayers  were  drowned  in  the 
war-whoop  and  yells  of  savages  less  savage  than  yourself?  Oh ! 
villain,  most  damnable  villain,  was  there  magnanimity  in  the  mur- 
der of  my  whole  family,  in  the  base  butchery  of  all  trtat  I  so  dearly 
cherished  and  loved?  Oh!  how  ineffably  mean  do  you  appear, 
when  you  implore  the  mercy  of  him,  whose  darling  little  Children's 
agonizing  screams  could  not  melt  your  heart  of  adamant  ?  Away, 
vilest  of  villains!  To  grant  mercy  to  such  an  unmerciful  wretch, 
would  outrage  the  very  name  of  justice,  and  bid  humanity  weep 
for  the  weakness  of  human  nature.  Never,  till  your«.bloodj  your 
base  blood  has  atoned  for  the  wrongs  you  have  done  me;  never, 
till  you  have  atoned  for  the  happiness  you  have  blasted,  and  the 
innocent , beloved  ones  you  have  butchered;  no,  never,  till  those 
are  revenged  whose  bones  are  bleaching  amid  the  ashes  of  my 
home,  that  but  for  your  accursed  ferocity,  might  have  still  been 
happy,  shall  my  soul  know  peace.  When  you  have  atoned  for 
the  misery  I  have  endured,  aye,  atoned  by  the  sacrifice  of  that  life 
you  meanly  crave,  then  shall  I  be  willing  to  die,  and  leave  a  world 
that  now  is  indeed,  a  waste,  a  wilderness  to  me.  But  mark  me, 
Colonel  M.anley,  I  will  take  no  mean  advantage  of  you,  meanly 
as  you  crept  into  the  Eden  of  my  bliss,  and  like  the  serpent  in 
Paradise,  destroyed  the  happiness  there.  No,  you  shall  fall  by 
my  hand,  but  it  shall  be  in  fair,  open  combat." 

My  captive  listened  to  this  harangue,  and  his  eye  brightened 
at  the  close,  for  he  felt  that  he  did  not  deserve  the  lenity  shown 
to  him.  I  kept  him  under  my  eye,  and  though  badly  wounded, 
he  for  a  time  rapidly  recovered ;  but  fever  ensued,  and  he  was  pros- 
trated on  a  pallet  of  severe  illness.  At  length  the  fever  became 
so  severe  that  the  attending  physician  expressed  doubts  of  his 
recovery,  and  as  death  approached  my  victim,  I  felt  the  ferocious 
spirit  of  revenge  forsake  me,  until  I  no  longer  thirsted  for  his 
blood.  The  bitter  animosity  that  had  throbbed  in  every  pulsation 
of  my  heart,  at  first,  sunk  into  a  feeling  of  apathy  and  unconcern, 
and  finally  to  something  approaching  to  pity.  Strange,  strange 
is  the  heart  of  man,  and  still  more  strange  are  the  passions  which 
actuate  it!  As  death  approached  my  captive  and  intended  vic- 
tim, I  was  astonished  to  find  myself  feeling  an  interest  in  the  fate 
of  him  whom  I  had  recently  hated  so  virulently,  and  who  had 


94  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

made  me  a  wretched  wanderer  in  the  world,  without  one  hope, 
save  that  of  revenge,  on  which  to  fix  my  eye.  Yes,  when  death 
came  to  release  his  guilty  spirit,  I  felt  pity  instead  of  that  soul-ab- 
sorbing desire  for  vengeance,  which  had  been  the  theme  of  my 
mind  day  and  night. 

I  saw  Colonel  Manley  die,  with  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  on  his 
lips;  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  even  upbraided  myself  with  his 
death.  Though  he  had  not  only  blasted  my  happiness,  but  my 
very  soul  in  the  ruin  of  my  household,  I  felt  unaccountably  strange, 
a  feeling  approaching  to  guilt,  in  witnessing  his  last  dying  ago- 
nies, and  oh!  if  I  were  miserable  before,  I  found  myself  infinitely 
more  so  now.  I  now  felt  like  one  who  is  entirely  deserted,  and 
who  sees  nothing  in  the  world  calculated  to  rouse  the  energies*  of 
his  soul;  nothing  on  which  to  fix  the  eye  of  desire;  nothing  to  excite 
ambition.  Oh !  how  desolate  now  was  my  heart,  that  once  had 
been  so  happy!  How  dreary  was  the  world,  that  once  had  been 
so  bright,  blissful  and  beautiful.  The  last  hope  that  had  stirred 
my  drooping  spirit,  the  hope  of  revenge,  had  perished  in  my 
heart,  and  there  was  nothing  to  excite ;  not  a  single  tie  to  bind 
me  to  the  world,  in  which  I  stood  alone.  When  I  gazed  upon  a 
withered,  blighted  oak,  blasted  by  the  thunder-bolt,  I  realized  my 
own  condition  by  the  similitude.  Oh!  how  far,  far  more  mise- 
rable was  I  now,  when  Colonel  Manley,  my  bitter  enemy  and  the 
destroyer  of  my  race,  was  dead !  In  my  wretched  and  forlorn 
condition,  with  nothing  to  love,  and  nothing  to  hope  for,  the  idea 
of  suicide  more  than  once  presented  itself  to  my  mind,  but  was 
suppressed  by  conscience,  which,  Shakspeare  tells  us, 

"Makes  cowards  of  us  all." 

Yes,  reason  told  me  that  I  had  "better  bear  the  ills  I  had,  than  fly 
to  others  that  I  knew  not  of."  I  thought  it  better  to  endure  "the 
stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune,  than  by  opposing  end 
them,"  better  to  groan  on  in  this  world,  than  rush  uncalled  into 
the  presence  of  that  awful,  yet  merciful  Being,  who  often  sends 
us  blessings  in  disguise.  I  discharged  the  unworthy  thought  from 
my  mind,  and  resolved  bravely  to  bear  up  against  my  misfortunes; 
for  there  is  no.t  in  this  life  a  spectacle  so  truly  sublime,  as  to  behold 
a  good  man  buffeting  the  stormy  waves  of  adversity. 

The  strong  affection  I  cherished  for  Nora  and  her  husband, 
whose  bravery  and  brilliant  achievements  had  earned  for  him  an 
envied  fame,  and  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  Colonel,  saved  me 
from  absolute  despair;  and  the  desire  to  minister  to  their  happi- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  95 

ness,  constituted  now  the  only  link  in  that  jnysterious  chain  which 
bound  me  to  life.  I  determined  henceforth  to  tread  the  path; of 
life  together  with  them,  and  with  them  to  share  whatever  fortune 
should  henceforth  bestow  on  me. 

I  followed  the  army,  under  Washington  or  one  of  his  generals, 
and  was  in  most  of  the  battles  that  occurred  after  that  of  the  Cow- 
pens,  in  which  the  brave  Morgan  so  shamefully  defeated  the  brag- 
gart Tarleton.  I  was  present  at  the  surrender  of  Lord  Corn- 
wallis,  and  often  did  I  wish,  when  in  the  heat  of  battle,  that  some 
unseen  stray  ball  would  put  a  period  to  those  miseries,  which  con- 
science would  not  permit  my  own  hand  to  do.  Secretly  did  I 
hope  that  chance  would  end  my  sorrows,  and  reunite  me  to  those 
beloved  ones  who  had  been  so  cruelly  butchered;  for  often  did  I 
fancy  the  bliss  of  meeting  Rosalie  in  yon  far  off  home,  where  sor- 
row is  a  stranger,  and  no  tears  are  ever  shed.  Often,  in  dreams, 
did  I  again  sit  in  my  once  happy  cottage,  and  clasp  my  wife  to  my 
bosom,  while  my  little  ones  climbed  my  knee, 

"The  envied  kiss  to  share," 

but  oh!  with  what  unutterable  anguish  did  my  bosom  swell;  what 
tides  of  tears  did  my  eyes  pour  forth,  when  I  awoke  to  find  it  all 
untrue,  and  busy  memory  pictured,  in  vivid  colors,  the  horrors  of 
the  past ! 

The  war  having  ended  in  the  triumph  of  liberty,  I  was  present 
when  the  great  and  good  Washington  bade  the  army  an  affection- 
ate farewell,  and  a  more  affecting  scene  I  never  witnessed.  Every 
soldier  loved  him,  and  many  a  manly  eye  shed  tears  at  the  thought 
of  parting  forever  with  their  beloved  chief.  To  me  the  thought 
was  painful,  for  I  had  learned  to  love  him;  and  now  when  I  con- 
template his  character,  I  am  lost  in  admiration  of  his  greatness, 
and  the  glory  of  his  virtues.  Washington  was  not  only  a  patriot 
and  a  soldier;  he  did  not  only  lead  to  victory  the  armies  of  his 
country ;  he  did  not  only  counsel  and  direct  the  operations  in  the 
field;  but  he  was  the  very  main-spring  of  the  cabinet,  and  directed 
the  deliberations  and  decisions  of  Congress  with  all  the  energy  of 
a  master  mind.  Whether  in  the  camp  or  the  cabinet,  the  forum 
or  the  field,  he  was  the  same  grand  and  glorious  character. 

Bidding  an  eternal  adieu  to  this  great  man,  to  whom  I  had  ren- 
dered many  important  services,  and  who  begged  me  to  call  upon 
him  if  necessity  should  come  upon  me,  I  left  the  army,  and  with 
my  usual  gloomy  feelings,  I  wended  my  way  to  Philadelphia,  and 
there  I  resolved  to  visit  Valley  Forge,  and  this  cave,  which  I  have 


96  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

called  the  wizard's  cave.  As  I  returned  from  the  South,  I  stopped 
to  look  at  the  grave  of  Colonel  Manley,  the  destroyer  of  my  peace  ; 
but  my  feelings,  when  bending  over  his  lowly  bed,  no  language 
can  describe;  no  fancy  can  conceive.  The  past,  with  all  its  bliss 
and  beauty;  with  all  its  miseries  and  horrors,  rose  up  before  me, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  I  lived  years  of  agony. 

I  am  now  near  the  close  of  the  history  of  my  life,  and  what  is 
to  be  my  future  destiny  I  know  not;  I  had  almost  said,  I  care  not. 
I  shall  live  only  for  the  happiness  of  Colonel  Danvers  and  his 
amiable  wife  who  are  poor,  and  for  whose  welfare  I  will  work. 
There  is  nothing  else  to  bind  me  to  life,  and  as  to  happiness,  I 
never  expect  to  partake  of  it  again  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 
Here  I  will  end  my  narrative,  and  leave  this  cave  forever. 


.  '•>..*>;     •*•:    ,       •:-    *.  .  •-       '     v      ;.      -.,.-,».•  ,.;;.'.; 

CHAPTER   XVII. 

"  And  joy  shall  shine  again  upon  that  brow 
Where  sat  but  dark  despair,  and  hope  relight 
The  gloomy  heart,  where  youthful  bliss  and  love 
Had  found  a  tomb." — AHOH. 

)HE  mysterious  man,  George  St.  Leger,  after  finishing  the 
revelation  or  history  of  his  life,  wandered  through  the 
cave  for  a  while,  in  great  distress  of  mind,  and  then  left, 
forgetting  in  his  perturbed  state  the  manuscript  which 
he  had  placed  in  a  secret  crevice  of  the  rock,  and  where  the 
soldier  found  it  as  described. 

He  returned  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  had  left  Colonel  Danvers 
and  his  wife  Nora,  the  amiable  Nora,  who  had,  through  the  tur- 
moils and  terrors  of  a  bloody  war,  followed  him,  partaking  of  his 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  ministering  to  his  wants,  when  sick  and 
wounded.  The  generous  George  St.  Leger,  furnished  all  the 
money  he  had  remaining,  with  which  Nora  established  a  little 
fancy  store,  on  the  profits  of  which  they  lived  comfortably.  But, 
though  they  thus  lived  comfortably,  thousands  were  in  distress  and 
poverty ;  for,  when  peace  came  and  liberty  smiled,  the  country 
was  in  a  deplorable  condition,  being  overwhelmed  with  debt,  and 
trade  and  manufactures  having  decayed. 

In  1787  a  general  convention  of  delegates  was  held  at  Phila- 
delphia, when  a  new  constitution  was  framed.  St.  Leger  was 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  97 

walking  the  street,  when  he  suddenly  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  com- 
manding form  of  Washington,  and  recognized  him  in  a  moment. 
Great  was  his  joy  to  meet  once  more  the  beloved  chief,  whom  he 
had  followed  to  "the  tented  field."  General  Washington  followed 
St.  Leger  to  the  house  of  Colonel  Danvers,  whom  he  well  remem- 
ber.ed,  and  St.  Leger  there  gave  him  the  story  of  his  life. 

After* Washington  heard  him  through,  he  said: 

"  Mr.  St.  Leger,  there  is  an  Indian  now  residing  in  Virginia, 
who  bade  me  say  to  you,  that  he  knows  some  Indians  who  pos- 
sess some  valuable  property  of  yours,  and  if  you  will  visit  him,  he 
will  have  it  delivered  to  you." 

In  a  moment  St.  Leger  thought  of  a  box  of  gold  coin,  which 
was  in  his  cottage  when  burnt.  With  the  promise  to  visit  Mount 
Vernon  and  the  Indian,  Washington  and  St.  Leger  parted. 

Some  time  elapsed  ere  St.  Leger  thought  again  of  the  box  of 
gold,  and  he  prepared  to  set  out  on  a  journey  to  the  residence  of 
the  illustrious  Washington.  When  he  arrived  at  Mount  Vernon, 
the  General  directed  him  to  the  wigwam  of  the  Indian,  whom  he 
found,  and  recognized  as  the  one  who  had  told  him  of  the  mur- 
derer of  his  family,  it  was  the  same  Indian  he  had  seen  standing 
upon  the  ruins  of  his  cottage,  when  he  returned  home  to  find  all 
his  family  destroyed. 

"Years  have  passed,"  said  St.  Leger,  "since  we  met  before;  and 
since  that  hour  I  have  known  no  happiness." 

"Cheer  up,"  returned  the  good  hearted  Indian,  "there  may  be 
happier  hours  in  store  for  you,  when  I  have  revealed  to  you  the 
place  where  you  may  find  your  lost  property." 

"Alas!"  ejaculated  St.  Leger,  with  a  sigh,  "gold  has  but  few 
charms  now  in  my  eyes.  If  I  could  call  up  from  the  grave  my 
lost  ones,  or  even  one  of  the  least  of  them,  you  might  talk  of  hap- 
piness, and  my  heart  would  leap  to  hear  you." 

"Listen,"  said  the  Indian,  seriously.  "Had  you  not  a  daugh- 
ter?" 

"Oh  God!  yes,  what  of  her,  speak,"  exclaimed  George  St. 
Leger,  with  deep  emotion. 

"  Would  you  again  behold  that  daughter?" 

"Oh  !  do  not  tantalize  me,  Onoko,"  exclaimed  St.  Leger,  grasp- 
ing the  hand  of  the  Indian,  "  but  tell  me,  does  my  daughter  yet  live  ?" 

"  She  yet  lives,"  said  the  Indian  calmly. 

"God  be  praised!"  cried  St.  Leger,  covering  his  face  with  his 
hands  and  bursting  into  tears.     "Oh!  then  there  is  some  happi- 
ness still  left  for  this  poor  heart." 
13 


98  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Your  daughter  lives  with  her  husband,"  continued  Onoko, 
"and  you  will  find  her  in  Alexandria.  Long  has  she  sought,  but 
could  hear  nothing  of  you." 

"How  was  she  saved?"  gasped  St.  Leger,  overpowered  by  his 
feelings.  "Tell  me!  tell  me  all,  Onoko!" 

"Well,  you  remember  that  Delancy  and  Manley  both  sent  a 
party  of  Indians  to  conduct  Rosalie  through  the  forest,  though 
with  different  intentions.  The  Indians  felt  pity  for  her  beauty, 
and  that  they  might  both  claim  their  reward,  they  agreed  to  con- 
ceal her,  and  report  the  story  of  her  death.  By  this  cunning  trick 
she  was  saved,  and  both  parties  of  Indians  received  their  pay. 
When  the  war  closed,  I  revealed  to  Delancy  the  place  where  he 
might  find  Rosalie,  and  he  discovered  and  married  her." 

"Does  she  know  that  I  yet  live?"  enquired  St.  Leger  eagerly. 

"No.  Two  or  three  years  ago  she  met  an  old  man,  with  whom 
she  became  acquainted,  and  who,  on  learning  that  her  name  had 
been  St.  Leger,  gave  her  a  scroll  of  paper,  which  he  said  he  found 
in  a  cave  at  Valley  Forge,  and  which  bore  the  name  of  her  father, 
George  St.  Leger.  From  that  scroll  she  first  learned  the  fate  of 
her  family." 

"  But  does  she  know  I  live  ?"  again  anxiously  enquired  St.  Leger. 

"No.  This  same  old  soldier  informed  her  that  he  was  told  by 
a  man  who  fought  at  your  side,  that  you  fell  at  the  battle  of  the 
Cowpens,  in  South  Carolina,  covered  with  wounds,  and  at  your 
side  died  your  enemy.  Rosalie  believes  all  her  family  to  be  dead. 
Your  presence  will  give  her  great  joy." 

St.  Leger  rose  in  haste  to  depart.  He  showered  his  thanks 
upon  the  generous  Onoko,  and  promised,  that  if  ever  fortune  fa- 
vored him,  to  remember  Onoko.  Bidding  adieu  to  Washington, 
to  whom  he  communicated  what  had  passed,  he  left  Mount  Vernon 
and  hurried  on  to  Alexandria. 

Having  arrived  at  that  ancient  town,  he  did  not  wander  long, 
until  he  beheld  the  name  of  Delancy,  on  a  sign  at  the  door  of  a 
public  house,  and  entered.  The  moment  he  beheld  Rosalie,  who 
was  followed  by  two  rosy-cheeked  children,  he  knew  her,  but  did 
not  make  himself  known,  lest  the  sudden  and  unexpected  meet- 
ing should  overpower  her.  Alas!  long  continued  grief  and  suf- 
fering had  made  such  powerful  inroads  on  his  constitution,  that 
she  did  not  know  him.  She  believed  her  father  to  be  dead,  and 
therefore  did  not  recognize  him, 

The  reader  may  wonder,  and  think  it  impossible  that  Rosalie 
should  have  lived  several  years  in  so  ancient  a  town  as  Alexandria, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  99 

without  the  tidings  having  come  to  the  ears  of  her  father;  but  it 
was  not  then  as  now ;  there  were  no  rail  roads,  no  steamboats,  no 
magnetic  telegraph,  scarcely  any  newspapers,  and  a  mail  but  sel- 
dom. A  travel  of  a  hundred  miles  was  then  equal  to  a  transit  now 
of  many  thousands.  News  was  not  then  transmitted  with  the 
velocity  of  lightning.  Happy  indeed  have  been  the  effects  of 
freedom. 

By  degrees  the  excited  father  made  himself  known,  and  touch- 
ing to  the  soul  of  sensibility  wj^  the  recognition.  Mingled  grief 
and  gladness  filled  both  their  hearts,  and  Rosalie  rushed  into  the 
arms,  and  fell  weeping  upon  the  bosom  of  her  long  lost  father. 
To  realize  the  feelings  of  such  a  scene,  the  reader  must  place  him 
or  herseff  in  such  a  situation. 

"Forgive  my  disobedience,  oh!  my  father,"  cried  the  weeping 
daughter,  "for  oh!  what  years  of  anguish  did  it  bring  on  both!" 

"Speak  not  of  that,  my  child,"  sobbed  St.  Leger,  "for  the  joy 
of  this  moment  cancels  all  the  past.  Oh!  could  I  but  behold 
the  balance  of  my  family,  who  perished  in  the  flames " 

"God  of  mercy!"  exclaimed  Rosalie,  interrupting  him,  "and 
have  you  not  heard " 

"Heard  what?"  interrogated  St.  Leger,  staring  at  her  like  a 
maniac,  as  he  threw  her  from  his  arms  and  rushed  across  the 
room,  not  knowing  what  he  did  or  said. 

"Be  calm,  my  dear  father.     Did  not  Onoko  tell  you  -* " 

"Tell  me  what?"  again  enquired  the  distracted  father,  again 
interrupting  her,  and  staring  wildly  at  her. 

"I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Rosalie  calmly,  endeavoring  to  prepare 
her  father  for  the  news  that  she  knew  would  overwhelm  him  with 
joy.  "I  see  how  it  is,  the  generous  Onoko,  who  plead  for,  and 
saved  us  all  from  the  tomahawk,  has  left  it  for  me  to  communicate 
to  you  the  blissful  tidings  that  our  family  are  all  alive." 

Had  a  ball  struck  St.  Leger  in  the  brain,  he  could  not  have 
dropped  more  suddenly  to  the  floor.  Overpowered  by  the  flood 
of  joy,  he  swooned,  and  Delancy,  who  came  in  and  learned  what 
had  passed,  thought  that  sudden  joy  had  killed  him,  for  he  remem- 
bered the  case  of  the  door-keeper  of  Congress,  who  fell  dead 
from  great  joy,  when  he  heard  that  Cornwallis  had  surrendered  his 
whole  army.  He  had,  also,  read  in  Hume's  history  of  England, 
that  several  died  of  joy  at  the  restoration  of  Charles  II  to  the 
throne  of  Great  Britain. 

Delancy  was  alarmed,  for  he  applied  to  the  usual  restoratives  in 
vain.  St.  Leger  remained  insensible  hour  after  hour,  until  the 


100  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

physicians,  who  had  been  called  in,  gave  up  all  hope  of  his  recov- 
ery. The  grief  of  Rosalie  was  unbounded.  The  thought  that  her 
father  should  perish  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  about  to  be 
restored  to  his  long  lost  family,  was  severe  indeed,  for  it  seemed 
as  if  she  had  destroyed  him  by  communicating  the  blissful  news. 

But  eventually,  by  great  and  constant  exertions,  the  physicians 
succeeded  in  restoring  animation,  and  he  opened  his  eyes  as  if  just 
awakened  from  a  long  and  dreary  dream.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
days  he  was  perfectly  recovered,  though  he  seemed  to  have  en- 
tirely forgotten  the  cause  of  his  affliction. 

Rosalie  gradually  and  cautiously  informed  him,  how  Colonel  Man- 
ley  had  hired  a  party  of  Indians  to  butcher  his  family  and  burn  his 
cottage,  and  how  Onoko  had  plead  for  their  lives  and  saved  them. 
She  pointed  out  the  tribe  of  Indians  with  whom  they  all  were, 
and  stated  that  her  husband,  Delancy,  had  sent  for  them  imme- 
diately after  Onoko  came  to  Virginia,  discovered  Rosalie,  and  told 
her  concerning  her  family.  It  had  been  so  long  since  Onoko  had 
seen  Rosalie,  that  he  had  forgotten  her,  she  had  so  altered  since 
her  marriage. 

Some  time  had  elapsed  since  Delancy  had  sent  the  second  time, 
the  first  messenger  having  failed  in  finding  them.  St.  Leger  was 
anxious  once  more  to  be  united  to  his  wife  and  children,  and  re- 
solved to  set  out  in  pursuit, of  them;  but,  to  his  great  joy,  on  the 
evening  before  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  start,  the  messenger 
returned,  conducting  the  elder  Rosalie  and  all  her  family. 

A  scene  ensued,  when  St.  Leger  and  his  wife  met,  which 
beggars  description.  He  was  perfectly  frantic,  and  ran  to  clasp 
his  children  one  after  another,  though  under  other  circumstances 
he  would  not  have  known  them,  so  much  had  they  grown,  and 
all  being  clad  in  the  Indian  costume.  Great  was  the  rejoicing, 
that  day,  at  the  re-union  of  a  family  that  had  been  so  long  sepa- 
rated, and  had  endured  so  much  of  hardship  and  sorrow.  Many 
a  sigh  of  untold  grief  had  they  breathed,  but  all  now  were  happy. 

St.  Leger  bent  his  knee  before  his  God,  in  grateful  thanks  for 
having  restored  to  him  his  lost  ones,  after  years  of  tribulation,  and 
when  he  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  happiness  on  this  side  of  the 
grave.  Scarcely  had  he  arrived  in  Philadelphia  with  all  his  family, 
for  young  Rosalie  and  her  husband  removed  with  them,  ere  he 
received  a  letter  from  England,  which  stated  that  his  eldest  brother 
was  long  since  dead,  and  that  his  parents  had  been  sometime 
dead,  having  lived  to  a  very  advanced  age.  By  the  death  of  his 
father,  he  being  the  oldest  male  of  the  family  living,  he  was,  by 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  101 

the  law  of  primogeniture,  heir  to  the  titles  and  the  whole  of  the 

immense  estates  of  his  father,  the  Earl  of .  For  the  titles 

he  cared  not  a  farthing,  for  in  fighting  for  it,  he  had  learned  to 
love  liberty,  and  was  a  true  republican. 

St.  Leger,  once  more  a  happy  man  and  the  possessor  of  im- 
mense wealth,  resolved  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  in 
America;  and,  with  this  view,  he  made  a  voyage  to  England,  to 
settle  and  dispose  of  his  estates.  Having  appointed  an  agent  to 
transact  his  business,  he  took  passage  at  Liverpool  in  a  ship  bound 
to  Philadelphia,  and  what  was  his  surprise  to  find,  as  passengers 
in  the  steerage,  the  once  proud  and  wealthy  Summers  and  his 
wife,  in  the  most  abject  state  of  poverty.  They  were  returning  to 
America,  after  being  banished,  and  informed  St.  Leger,  that  the 
ship  on  board  of  which  they  went  as  exiles,  had  been  wrecked, 
from  which  they  only  escaped  with  their  lives,  having  lost  every 
dollar  they  possessed.  They  were  now  returning  in  poverty  to 
their  native  land,  and  they  wept  when  they  spoke  of  their  tory 
attempt  to  betray  General  Washington  into  the  hands  of  the 
British. 

When  the  ship  arrived  at  the  wharf  at  Philadelphia,  and  the 
friends  of  the  passengers  came  flocking  on  board,  his  eye  caught 
the  form  of  the  once  proud  and  fashionable  Charlotte  Summers, 
but  oh!  how  changed!  Her  husband,  Charles  Moreland,  had 
been  killed  in  battle,  during  the  revolution,  after  he  had,  through 
the  persuasion  of  the  Summers'  family,  deserted  from  the  Ameri- 
can army. 

They  have  met  their  desert,  thought  St.  Leger,  as  he  went  on 
shore,  and  hastened  to  the  large  building  in  Chestnut  street,  in 
which  his  family  had  been  placed.  He  found  them  all  well  as  he 
had  left  them.  His  first  care  was  to  see  to  the  education  of  his 
children;  not  only  his  own,  but  also  those  of  Delancy  and  Dan- 
vers. 

St.  Leger  now  lived  a  new  life.  The  world  was  again  illumined 
by  the  sun  of  happiness,  and  "all  the  clouds  that  lowered  above 
his  house,  were  in  the  deep  bosom  of  the  ocean  buried."  His 
generous  heart  did  not  forget  Onoko,  the  Indian,  to  whose  gen- 
erous exertion,  he  owed  the  safety  of  his  whole  family,  and  the 
happiness  he  now  enjoyed.  He  invited  Onoko  to  Philadelphia, 
but  finding  that  he  preferred  the  solitude  of  the  forest,  he  pur- 
chased him  a  farm  in  Virginia,  stocked  it,  and  settled  on  him  a 
pension  for  life.  To  Danvers  he  was  also  liberal.  Discovering  in 
him  a  penchant  for  mercantile  pursuit,  he  started  him  in  business  in 


102  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Market  street,  from  which,  in  the  course  of  time,  he  became  one 
of  the  largest  shipping  merchants  in  Philadelphia. 

One  evening  in  winter,  whilst  St.  Leger  and  some  of  his  family 
were  at  a  party  at  the  house  of  Danvers,  and  his  splendid  parlor 
was  alive  with  the  elite  of  the  city,  a  poor  woman  came  to  the 
door  to  ask  charity  for  her  aged  father  and  mother,  who  were  suf- 
fering all  the  horrors  of  want.  That  poor  woman  was  the  once 
proud  and  imperious  Charlotte  Moreland  or  Summers.  Mr.  Dan- 
vers had  recently  bought  the  elegant  residence  in  which  he  lived, 
and  was  lately  removed  to  it,  in  honor  of  which  occasion  the  party 
was  given.  Charlotte  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  house  of  her 
sister  Nora,  that  she  had  applied  to  for  charity,  or  her  pride  even 
in  her  poverty  and  want,  would  have  prevented  her  from  calling 
there.  But  she  had  committed  herself;  she  was  discovered,  and  it 
was  too  late  now  to  retreat.  The  generous  Nora  endeavored  to 
forget  the  sorrowful  time,  when,  in  poverty,  she  was  rudely  re- 
pulsed from  her  father's  door,  under  pretence  that  she  was  a  poor 
crazy  creature  who  annoyed  them.  She  endeavored  to  forget  the 
cruel  language  of  Charlotte,  when  she  left  Valley  Forge,  trudging 
her  way  on  foot,  to  implore  relief  for  her  poor  wounded  husband. 
With  tears  in  her  eyes,  she  gave  Charlotte  money  to  relieve  the 
wants  of  her  suffering  parents,  and  promised  to  come  and  see 
them,  and  provide  for  them  in  future.  The  proud  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Summers  had  suffered  for  turning  against  their  bleeding  country 
in  the  hour  of  her  darkness  and  danger,  and  far  were  they  re- 
moved from  the  wealth  and  titles  which  they  once  expected  to 
crown  their  treachery  and  treasonable  designs.  And  thus  it  ever 
is  with  those  who  spurn  the  dictates  of  virtue,  and  seek  preferment 
in  forbidden  ways.  In  the  language  of  Pope: 

"Honor  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 

St.  Leger  pitied  these  unhappy  people,  for  they  were  now  hum- 
bled to  the  dust,  and  truly  penitent.  He  assisted  in  lifting  them 
from  their  degradation,  and  in  placing  it  in  their  power  to  live 
comfortably  and  happy. 

When  Washington  was  chosen  the  first  President  of  the  United 
States,  honors  awaited  the  family  of  St.  Leger.  He  was  offered 
and  accepted  a  station  under  the  government,  of  high  distinc- 
tion ;  and,  in  after  years,  his  eldest  son  was  sent  as  a  minister- 
plenipotentiary  to  one  of  the  courts  of  Europe.  Among  his  de- 
scendants have  risen  some  of  the  most  gifted  men  that  ever  sat 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  103 

in  Congress,  or  made  the  walls  of  Washington  ring  with  the 
thunders  of  their  eloquence.  Delancy  rose  to  distinction;  for, 
like  St.  Leger,  he  became  an  American  in  heart  and  soul,  and  was 
chosen  to  fill  many  important  and  honorable  stations.  One  of  the 
sons  of  Delancy  occupied  a  high  position  under  the  government, 
during  the  administration  of  Mr.  Madison,  and  became  very  cele- 
brated as  a  statesman.  Long  life  seemed  to  have  been  granted  by 
Heaven  to  most  of  those  who  struggled  for  liberty.  Look  at  the 
signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence!  But  two  of  them 
died  early;  the  one  was  drowned,  and  the  other  fell  in  a  duel. 
For  the  others,  in  length  of  life,  there  is  not  a  parallel  on  the 
pages  of  history.  George  St.  Leger  lived  to  see  his  great  grand- 
children playing  around  him.  After  their  reunion,  never  was  there 
a  happier  or  more  honored  family,  than  that  of 

€\i  3Bi|stmntiB  y&m,  nr  tjp  Mprfr  nf  ffaltaj  /nrgt 


O  WHAT  is  hope  devoid  of  faith, 
In  God's  immutable  decrees? 
It  is  a  rainbow's  radiant  ray, 
A  metor  bright  that  flits  away, 
A  brilliant  bubble  on  the  bay, 
The  poet  saith, 
That  breaks  at  every  breeze. 

And  what  is  faith  devoid  of  light 
Within  the  immortal  soul? 

The  consciousness  of  sins  forgiven? 
'Tis  but  a  star  that  points  to  heaven, 
An  ignis  fatuus  that  leads 
The  traveller  o'er  mounts  and  meads, 
Then  sinks  in  night, 

Nor  takes  him  to  the  goal. 


.- 


Cirjir  ffl  Wleg  Jforge. 


-   «<*«••»>',  •  '•;••:»?;.  V9f9  ' 
'A  smiling  country,  graced  with  all  that  Art 
And  Nature  join'd,  may  bring  to  bless  man's  heart ; 
Where  every  thing  conspires  the  soul  to  please, 
And  life  must  pass  in  opulence  and  ease. 


ARLY  *n  Saturday  morning,  the  31st  of  July, 
1847,  the  author,  in  company  with  one  of  the 
proprietors  of  the  Blue  Hen's  Chicken,  one  of 
the  #nost  popular  newspapers  in  the  State  of 
Delaware,  started  on  a  travel  to  Valley  Forge, 
celebrated  in  history  as  the  spot  where  the  illus- 
trious Washington,  chief  of  the  American  army, 
went  into  winter-quarters,  during  the  dark  and 
dreary  days  of  the  Revolution.  Our  object  was 
to  view  the  scenery  around  Valley  Forge,  and 
pick  up  incidents  among  the  old  residenters,  on 
which  to  found  a  Revolutionary  Tale. 

We  left  Wilmington  with  a  fixed  determina- 
tion to  enjoy  ourselves,  and  to  be  familiar  with 
every  thing  but — brandy  bottles,— and  right  well 
did  we  carry  out  that  resolve;  for  though  our 
spirits  were  ardent  in  the  pursuit  of  enjoyment  and  information, 
we  studiously  avoided  ardent  spirits.  Yet,  paradoxical  as  it  may 
appear,  we  mingled  with,  and  enjoyed  the  overflowing  of,  many 
an  ardent  spirit,  while  we  roamed — not  rum-inated  abroad.  The 
reader  will  pardon  my  pun-y  attempt  at  a  pun. 

Our  ride  to  West  Chester  was  not  productive  of  any  incidents, 
particularly  interesting  to  the  reader;  nor  did  any  accidents  occur, 
save  that  we  heard  of  a  man  who  had  been  struck  on  the  head 
with  an  axe,  which  of  course  was  axe-eye-dent.  A  plague  take 
the  puns,  for  if  one  comes  near  me,  I  cannot  help  pun-ishing  it. 
Oh!  how  delightful  the  corn  looked,  over  the  innumerable  fields 
we  passed,  both  in  Delaware  and  Pennsylvania!  So  rank,  so  tall, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  105 

so  green !  I  observed  one  material  difference  between  all  the  corn 
I  saw  growing  in  Pennsylvania,  and  that  which  is  seen  on  similar 
land  in  Kent  County,  Delaware.  It  has  been  remarked,  that  there 
is  no  land  in  the  United  States,  So  easily  improved,  and  so  pro- 
ductive when  improved,  as  that  of  Kent  County,  and  I  do  not 
doubt  the  assertion.  The  corn  in  Pennsylvania  is/emarkably  tall; 
but  that  which  grows  on  rich  land  in  Kent  County,  Delaware, 
though  not  so  high  by  one,  two  or  more  feet,  is  at  least  one-third 
thicker  in  the  stalk,  and  bears  not  orljy  a  greater  number  of  ears, 
but  those  that  are  larger  and  longer.  But,  alas?  there  is  one 
material  difference  observable  in  the  lands  of  Pennsylvania  and 
those  of  Kent  County,  Delaware.  While  in  Pennsylvania  you 
scarcely  see  a  foot  of  ground  that  is  not  improved,  in  Kent  County 
you  find  comparatively  little  that  is  improved.  This  is  easily  ac- 
counted for.  The  lands  in  Chester  County  are  occupied  generally 
by  the  owners,  whose  interest  it  is  to  improve  them;  while,  on  the 
contrary,  those  of  Kent  are  occupied  by  tenants,  who  may  remove 
at  pleasure,  seldom  remaining  more  than  two  or  three  years; 
hence  the  unwillingness  of  the  one  party  t»'  improve  the  lands 
for  the  benefit  of  those  who  are  to  come  after  them;  they 
raise  every  thing  they  can,  and  leave  th*  farm  poorer  than 
they  found  it.  All  that  is  required  to  make  Kent  County  the 
garden  spot  of  Delaware,  is  for  the  lands  to  fall  into  the  hands  of 
farmers,  men  of  scientific  as  well  as  practical  knowledge;  whose 
interest  it  will  be  to  improve  them.  It  is  owing  to  the  fact  that  the 
owners  occupy,  principally,  and  improve  the  farms  of  New  Castle 
County,  that  the  lands  in  that  county  have  become  so  much  richer 
than  those  in  Kent.  Look  around  you,  and  it  is  apparent.  Would 
the  lands  of  Messieurs  Reybold,  and  many  others,  have  been  what 
they  are,  had  they  been  occupied  by  different  tenants  every  year 
or  two,  and  by  men  who  cannot  analyze  a  soil ;  distinguish  scien- 
tifically one  soil  from  another,  or  make  the  proper  application  of 
manures  to  different  vegetable  productions?  No. 

But  to  proceed.  West  Chester  is  the  most  beautiful  inland 
town  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  part  of  the  United  States  that  I  have 
visited,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  it  is  so;  for  it  is  surrounded  by 
fertile  fields  that,  in  proper  season,  groan  with  golden  grain — by 
a  vast  extent  of  rich  country,  equal  to  the  State  of  Delaware,  that 
is  amply  able  to  sustain  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  infer  by  this,  that 
the  State  of  Delaware  is  a  vast  country — I  speak  comparatively — 
Delaware  is  like  a  diamond,  diminutive,  but  having  within  it  inhe- 
rent specific  value.  West  Chester  is  surrounded  by  a  glorious 
14 


106  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

country,  ample  in  its  resources,  and  filled,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
with  a  liberal,  generous,  whole-souled  people,  who  do  not  make 
their  day-book  their  Bible,  nor  gold  their  God.  Witness  their 
public-spirited  improvements;  their  lofty,  airy,  elegant  mansions; 
grand  but  not  gorgeous ;  beautiful  but  not  extravagantly  gay.  In 
going  to  West  Chester,  we  put  up  at  the  comfortable  hotel  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Guss,  where  we  were  well  accommodated  by  a  polite 
landlord. 

From  the  hotel  we  sauntered  forth  to  the  office  of  the  kind 
hearted  and  intelligent  Mr.  Bosee,  one  of  the  proprietors  and  edi- 
tors of  the  Republican  and  Democrat;  who,  after  introducing  us 
to  Mr.  Strickland,  the  other  editor,  put  on  his  coat,  dropped  busi- 
ness, and  accompanied  us  about  town.  As  a  proof  of  the  hospi- 
tality of  the  people  of  West  Chester,  I  will  mention  one  in- 
stance. As  we  were  crossing  a  street,  we  were  hailed  by  a  gen- 
tleman, who  came  up,  and  after  making  himself  known,  and 
stating  that  he  had  read  my  writings  years  ago  in  Philadelphia, 
concluded  by  giving  us-  a  pressing  invitation  to  dinner,  which  we 
politely  declined,  as  we  had  already  spoken  for  dinner  at  the  hotel 
where  we  stopped.  The  gentleman  alluded  to  was  Mr.  Brown, 
proprietor  of  the  superb  Mansion  House,  of  which,  as  well  as  of  its 
very  affable,  polite  and  agreeable  proprietor,  I  shall  have  occasion 
to  speak  on  our  return.  Mr.  Bosee  very  kindly  conducted  us  to 
the  office  of  the  Register  and  Examiner,  and  introduced  us  to  the 
agreeable  and  communicative  editor,  with  whom  we  conversed 
some  time. 

West  Chester  is  not  only  beautiful  in  its  private  and  public 
buildings;  its  wide,  airy,  clean  streets,  and  city-like  places  of  busi- 
ness; but  it  is  surrounded  by  elegant  situations  that  give  to  its 
suburbs  or  environs  a  romantic,  as  well  as  rural  beauty.  The 
water  works  are  handsomely  arranged.  A  branch  of  a  rail  road 
terminates  there,  and  we  saw  a  large  car  depart,  well  filled  with 
gay  forms  and  happy  faces,  for  Philadelphia  and  parts  unknown. 
The  most  prominent  object  in  West  Chester,  that  arrests  the  eye 
of  the  traveller,  is  the  splendid,  large  Court  House,  that  will  now 
soon  be  completed.  It  is,  judging  by  the  immense  iron  columns 
that  are  being  erected,  of  the  Corinthian  order  of  architecture, 
fire-proof.  From  the  roof  rises  an  octangular  tower-like  stee- 
ple, that  at  a  distance  gives  to  the  town  a  city-like  appearance. 
This  large  building,  I  am  told,  will  cost,  when  completed,  near 
fifty  thousand  dollars;  it  stands  in  close  contiguity  to  the  old  court 
house,  which  looks  like  a  pigmy  in  comparison,  and  reflects  great 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  107 

credit  on  the  magnificent  liberality  of  the  county.  A  long,  well 
arranged  market  house  is  situated  in  one  of  the  wide  streets. 
Some  new  buildings  are  being  built. 

In  the  afternoon  we  left  West  Chester  on  our  way  to  Phoenix- 
ville,  a  distance  of  about  seventeen  miles.  In  passing  through 
the  rich  country  bordering  on  the  Schuylkill,  the  traveller  is  not 
at  all  astonished  at  having  left  so  flourishing  and  beautiful  a  town 
as  West  Chester;  for,  when  his  eye  ranges  over  the  rich  green 
meadows,  and  gazes  over  a  rolling  country,  divided  into  fields  on 
which  the  tall  corn,  over  the  distant  hills,  looks  almost  like  wood- 
lands, he  sees  evidence  of  the  cause.  Oh !  it  makes  the  heart 
glad,  when  surveying  the  luxuriant  pastures,  on  which  large  limbed 
oxen,  and  fat  cows  and  huge  oxen,  and  noble  horses,  are  graz- 
ing. Such  a  country  would  support  half  a  dozen  large  towns, 
or  even  cities.  Such  crops  of  corn,  and  so  great  a  quantity, 
never,  perhaps,  was  garnered,  as  will  be  taken  from  this  rich 
land  this  season.  There  is  no  cause  for  wonder  that  the  land  is 
rich  in  this  part  of  Pennsylvania,  and  no  wonder  that  Pennsylva- 
nia is  one  of  the  richest,  and  might  be  made  by  far  the  richest 
State  in  the  Union.  As  we  rode  along  the  rich  and  romantic 
banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  my  eye  rested  on  a  lime  kiln  at  every  dis- 
tance of  a  quarter  of  a  mile;  and  wherever  we  see  a  lime  coun- 
try, there  is  a  rich  country.  The  resources  of  Pennsylvania  in 
lime,  coal,  iron,  and  indeed  every  thing  that  pertains  to  wealth, 
are  inexhaustible;  and  were  her  sons  endowed  with  a  tithe  of  the 
tact  and  talent  that  distinguish  those  of  Yankeedom — had  they 
that  spirit  of  enterprize  and  invincible  perseverance  which  belongs 
to  brother  Jonathan  of  the  East,  they  might  by  their  tact,  like  the 
fabled  character  in  the  Heathen  Mythology,  turn  every  thing  into 
gold. 

The  nearer  we  approached  Phcenixville,  the  more  romantic  be- 
came the  rolling  country.  As  we  ascended  a  high  hill,  about  two 
miles  from  the  town,  the  most  beautiful  and  brilliant  scene — the 
most  lovely  and  luxuriant  landscape  broke  upon  our  view  that 
my  eyes  ever  surveyed,  though  I  have  gazed  upon  many  grand 
and  glorious  exhibitions  of  nature.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
around,  were  spread  gay,  green  vales,  and  gorgeous  hills,  rising 
one  above  another  in  the  form  of  a  perfect  amphitheatre;  graced 
here  and  there  with  beautiful  cottages,  that  looked  like  the  happy 
homes  of  peace  and  plenty;  and  dotted  with  lone  and  lofty  wood- 
lands. When  the  magnificent  scene  first  broke  upon  my  view 


108  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

a  burst  of  enthusiastic  admiration  gushed  from  my  lips,  and  I  ex- 
claimed in  the  lovely  language  of  Thomas  Moore — 

"  I  knew  by  the  smoke,  that  so  gracefully  curl'd 
Around  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near; 
And  I  said,  if  there's  peace  in  the  world  to  be  found, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  here." 

'  . 

It  was  a  cloudy  day,  and  how  I  sighed  for  a  morning  sun  to  be 
shedding  his  golden  rays  on  that  green  and  glorious  scene !  How 
I  longed  for  the  soft  sun-rays  of  morn  to  illumine  that  lovely  land- 
scape— that  Eden  of  the  earth!  Far,  far  below,  in  the  luxuriant 
valleys,  and  on  the  sides  of  sloping  hills,  I  gazed  upon  innumera- 
ble cattle  grazing,  that  looked  in  perspective  like  guinea  pigs  on 
a  green  carpet,  so  small  was  the  angle  of  vision  through  which  we 
viewed  them  from  the  immense  height.  Beautiful  indeed  were 
the  extensive  fields  covered  with  corn,  that,  diminished  by  the  op- 
tic angle  under  which  they  were  viewed,  looked  like  small  patches; 
and  lots  containing  acres,  seemed  to  the  eye  as  mere  hearth  rugs 
covered  with  a  shaggy  worsted.  Though  many  sublime  scenes 
were  witnessed  along  the  banks  of  the  Schuylkill,  none  were  so 
exquisitely  grand  and  glorious  as  this.  Oh!  if  the  first  blissful 
abode  of  man  on  earth  were  more  lovely,  more  romantic,  more 
sublimely  beautiful  than  this,  I  said,  in  my  heart,  it  must  have  been 
a  Heaven  indeed;  for  here  all  the  elements  of  sublimity  and 
beauty  seemed  to  have  been  exhausted!  To  my  poetic  fancy  it 
appeared,  in  its  peerless  variety,  nothing  less  than  a  perfect  Para- 
dise, where  life  might  pass  away  in  uninterrupted  peace  and  plea- 
sure. Oh!  how  happy  were  it  here  to  a  pure  young  heart,  away 
from  the  distracting  bustle  of  a  city,  to  pitch  his  tent;  to  rear  his 
cottage;  surrounded  with  plenty,  and  blessed  with  one  gentle 
spirit!  How  could  he  here 

•"Sigh  upon  innocent  lips, 


On  lips  never- sighed  on  by  any  but  his." 

The  day  was  almost  done — the  sun  was  just  sinking  behind  the 
lonely  and  lofty  woodlands  that  lifted  their  heads  on  the  dim  and 
distant  hills  in  the  west,  when  we  arrived  at  the  thriving  and  pic- 
turesque, though  scattered  and  neglected  town  of  Phrenixville; 
and  put  up  at  the  excellent  hotel  kept  by  Mr.  Brower,  a  polite  and 
well  bred  gentleman.  After  tea,  we  sauntered  forth  to  the  rail 
road,  which  runs  by  the  town  on  the  east,  and  is  built  up  ten  or 
twenty  feet  above  the  common  level,  as  the  place  for  some  dis- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  109 

tance  is  low  and  wet.  Night  coming  on,  we  went  no  further  than 
the  fine  large  bridge  which  crosses  the  Schuylkill,  near  the  rail 
road.  Over  this  road  vast  quantities  of  coal  are  carried,  much  of 
which  is  deposited  at  this  place,  to  feed  the  immense  iron  works, 
in  which  iron  is  made  from  the  ore,  and  manufactured  into  rail 
road  bars. 

Fatigued  by  our  travel,  for  we  are  both  devoted  to  sedentary 
employments,  we  returned  to  the  hotel,  with  the  intention  of  re- 
tiring for  the  night;  but  hearing  a  loud  voice  up  the  street  as  of 
some  one  speaking,  we  advanced  to  the  spot,  and  found  a  Wash- 
ingtonian,  from  Baltimore,  addressing  a  multitude  of  men  on  the 
subject  of  temperance,  most  of  whom  were  workmen  from  the 
different  factories.  He  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  proved,  by  his 
perseverance,  how  much  he  had  the  great  and  good  cause  of  tem- 
perance at  heart;  for  he  was  interrupted,  ridiculed,  and  finally 
forced  to  relinquish  his  undertaking,  after  he  had  spoken  about 
half  an  hour.  He  had  a  hard  audience  to  deal  with.  His  rostrum 
was  reared  on  the  street,  near  the  temperance  hotel. 

Apropos!  It  will  be  recollected  that,  in  the  temperance  elec- 
tion in  Pennsylvania,  the  license  law  was  abrogated,  and  the  sale 
of  ardent  spirits  prohibited  in  Chester  County.  It  is  the  intention 
of  dealers  in  the  article  to  contest  the  law,  as  was  done  in  Dela- 
ware. But  the  law  is  a  matter  of  moonshine  to  the  people  of 
Phoenixville,  or  at  least  to  those  who  are  determined  to  drink 
liquor;  for  the  only  obstacle  to  be  overcome  in  obtaining  the 
"joyful,"  is  to  cross  the  Schuylkill,  when  they  are  in  another 
county,  where  the  sale  of  liquor  is  not  prohibited  by  law,  and 
where  it  is  kept  for  sale.  The  distance,  it  is  said,  is  but  a  short 
walk;  and  thus,  in  effect,  is  rendered  null  and  void  the  attempt 
to  put  down  the  sale  and  consumption  of  ardent  spirits  by  the 
ballot  box.  The  attempt  to  suppress  the  cause  of  intemperance 
by  force,  is  futile.  If  "moral  suasion"  should  prove  insufficient, 
the  partial  exercise  of  the  arm  of  the  law  can  never  accomplish 
it;  but,  on  the  contrary,  in  my  opinion,  will  increase  it,  by  cre- 
ating an  organized  opposition  founded  in  interest,  the  strongest 
motive  that  can  sway  the  human  mind;  and  by  increasing  desire, 
for  it  is  well  known  to  those  acquainted  with  metaphysics  and 
moral  philosophy,  that  restraint  is  one  of  the  most  powerful  in- 
centives to  desire.  Our  desire  for  liberty  is  more  ideal  than  real, 
for  though  we  might  voluntarily  confine  ourselves  to  a  room  for 
days  and  weeks,  no  sooner  would  a  tyrant  decree  that  we  should 
remain  in  it  one  day,  than  it  would  be  invested  with  all  the  horrors 


110  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

of  a  dungeon,  and  we  should  sigh  to  be  freed  from  it  in  less  than 
an  hour,  though  we  were  perfectly  satisfied  before.  Would  to 
God  that  every  drop  of  liquor  were  annihilated  from  the  world,  so 
far  as  relates  to  intemperance;  but  it  is  my  humble  opinion,  that 
though  man  may  by  persuasion  be  induced  to  relinquish  the  curse, 
force  will  increase  it,  for  we  invariably  feel  an  increased  desire  for 
that  object  or  article  from  which  we  are  debarred.  This  was  the 
case  with  Adam  and  Eve,  in  Paradise.  We  hear  nothing  of  their 
desire  for  apple  juice,  until  they  were  forbidden  to  taste  it;  but 
no  sooner  did  they  hear  the  decree,  than  the  flame  of  desire  was 
lighted  in  their  souls ;  and  though  they  were  permitted  to  taste  of  all 
the  rest,  .none  was  so  delicious  to  their  notion  as  said  apple  juice. 
And,  as  their  posterity  have  done  after  them,  they  determined 
to  taste  it,  though  certain  death  was  the  consequence.  Their  de- 
sire it  seems  was  stronger  than  their  moral  force.  Its  gratification 
in  the  very  face  of  the  law  which  directed  them  to  abstain  under 
the  penalty  of  death,  proved  their  ruin.  The  desire  for  apple  juice 
has  since  sent  millions  of  mankind  to  untimely  tombs.  It  is  a 
desideratum  "devoutly  to  be  wished,"  that  the  tide  of  intemper- 
ance could  be  stayed;  for  oh!  how  many  of  the  mightiest  men  ; 
of  the  most  glorious  minds,  and  heavenly  hearts;  might  be  saved 
from  ruin,  degradation  and  death,  thereby;  but,  in  our  first  pa- 
rents, we  see  an  example  of  the  influence  of  force  superinducing, 
or,  or  least,  increasing  desire  for  that  which  was  forbidden.  We 
see  that  our  first  parents  were  spiritually  inclined,  for  they  loved 
the  "juice;"  which  the  Egyptians  afterwards  unfortunately  disco- 
vered the  mode  of  distilling;  though  the  alembic  is  of  Arabian  ori- 
gin, as  it  is  derived  from  two  Arabic  words,  al  ambix,  the  pot. 

But  to  return  to  Phcenixville.  All  night  long  we  lay,  at  Mr. 
Brewer's  comfortable  hotel,  with  the  puffing  sounds  of  locomotives 
in  our  ears.  Scarcely  ten  minutes  elapsed,  through  the  night, 
between  the  passage  of  trains  transmitting  coal. 

In  the  morning  we  visited,  before  breakfast,  the  immense  iron 
works,  viewing  the  great  variety  of  machinery  for  making  iron 
from  the  ore,  and  manufacturing  it  into  rail  road  bars,  which  saves 
to  the  country  vast  sums,  heretofore  expended  for  that  article  in 
England,  and  for  transporting  it  three  thousand  miles  across  the 
Atlantic.  It  looked  queer  to  us  to  see  the  men  at  work  on  the 
Sabbath.  The  cotton  factory  was  closed.  In  iron  works  a  great 
amount  of  money  must  be  invested,  and  profitably,  I  should  sup- 
pose, for  they  are  very  extensive. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD.  Ill 

The  streets  of  Phocnixville  are  not  paved;  the  gutters  are  ne- 
cessarily dirty,  and  the  gravel  sidewalks  very  narrow,  though  the 
town,  computing  all  its  scattered  parts,  contains  three  or  four 
thousand  inhabitants.  It  is,  from  appearances,  a  thriving  place; 
and  is  extremely  romantic,  having  some  handsome  buildings.  The 
agreeable  landlord  is  improving  his  hotel  building. 

"Birds  of  a  feather  will  flock  together,"  says  the  proverb;  and 
accordingly  after  breakfast  we  called  on  the  poet,  Mr.  J.  Bayard 
Taylor,  editor  of  the  Phcenixville  Pioneer,  who,  by  the  bye,  is  a 
beautiful  writer;  a  gifted  and  very  agreeable,  good  looking  young 
man;  and,  as  we  expected  to  find  him,  affable,  and  entirely  free 
from  aristocratic  stiffness,  and  vain,  proud  pomposity.  He  was  le 
debonnaire,  as  the  French  would  style  him  in  their  sweet,  soft,  and 
graceful  language.  Mr.  Taylor  very  kindly  agreed  to  pilot  us  to 
the  further  end  of  the  rail  road  tunnel,  which  is  cut  through  the 
solid  rock  of  a  mountain;  but,  as  he  was  unfortunately  afflicted 
with  the  jaw-ache,  and  a  coming  cloud  portended  rain,  he  was 
compelled  reluctantly  to  return,  when  about  half  way  to  the  tun- 
nel, and  we  were  deprived  of  the  company  and  conversation  of  a 
poet,  a  man  of  sound  sense,  and  very  easy,  graceful,  and  agreea- 
ble manners.  Of  Mr.  Taylor's  poetry,  Willis  and  other  distin- 
guished writers  of  this  country,  we  are  informed,  have  spoken 
in  the  highest  terms  of  eulogy.  He  pressed  us  warmly  to  call  on 
him  on  our  return  from  the  tunnel,  as  he  had  some  splendid  draw- 
ings, engravings,  and  other  matters  of  taste,  to  amuse  us  with; 
but,  as  we  lost  our  way  in  the  dense  woodlands,  and  were  so 
much  delayed  in  our  departure  for  Valley  Forge,  we  were  forced 
to  forego  the  pleasure  the  interview  would  have  afforded  us.  The 
paper  published  by  Mr.  Taylor,  evinces  the  taste  and  talent  of  its 
editor.  Success  to  him;  may  happiness  and  prosperity  attend 
him. 

After  wandering  some  time  in  the  woodlands,  we  enquired  of  a 
gentleman  who  pointed  our  way  along  the  canal  to  the  mouth  of 
the  Tunnel.  Some  men  were  engaged  in  passing  a  canal  boat 
through  the  locks.  At  length,  pelted  by  a  heavy  shower  of  rain, 
we  stood  at  the  mouth  of  the  long  looked  for  tunnel,  the  rock 
bound  walls  of  which  were  as  black  from  the  smoke  of  the  engines 
as  those  of  Pluto's  dungeons.  The  watchman,  an  intelligent  son 
of  the  Emerald  Isle,  whose  little  cabin  was  stored  with  books, 
came  out  and  gave  us  the  following  information. 

This  Black  Rock  Tunnel  was  completed  in  September,  1837. 
Length  1,932  feet;  width  19  feet;  height  17  feet.  The  engineers 


112  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

were  Messrs.  Robinson  and  Prim;  assistant  engineer,  Mr.  Win. 
H.  Wilson.  Contractor,  Mr.  James  Appleton. 

The  depth  of  earth  and  rock  over  the  Tunnel  is  164  feet.  Se- 
ven persons  were  killed  during  the  construction.  I  am  astonished 
that  the  rail  road  company  does  pot  build  a  comfortable  house  for 

Patrick ,  the  watchman,  for  in  the  one  we  took  shelter  a 

man  can  scarcely  turn  round,  and  is  withal  very  uncomfortable, 
scarcely  screening  him  from  the  storm. 

Returning  to  Phcenixville,  we  ascended  the  mountain  from  which 
we  had  a  magnificent  view  of  the  surrounding  country,  the  canal 
and  rail  road,  that  wound  along  the  green,  fertile  valley  like  two 
huge  serpents  winding  along  till  they  were  lost  to  the  eye.  After 
again  being  lost,  we  fell  in  with  two  jovial  gentlemen  who  laughed 
heartily  at  our  ignorance,  and  piloted  us  to  town  by  the  way  of  the 
large  iron  works  of  Messrs.  Buck  &  Reeves,  who  employ  between 
two  and  three  hundred  hands.  Standing  on  the  rail  road  the  sce- 
nery to  the  north,  west  and  south  is  indescribably  grand,  sublime 
and  romantically  beautiful.  Some  views  are  indeed  wild  and 
wonderful. 

Late  in  the  morning  we  left  Phoenixville  for  Valley  Forge,  the 
celebrated  spot  on  which  our  reflections  centred,  and  fancy  had 
arrayed  in  the  gay,  grand,  gorgeous  robes  of  romance.  As  we 
approached  it,  our  impressions  were  grand  though  gloomy;  sor- 
rowful though  sublime.  We  were  about  to  wander  where  the 
world-worshipped  Washington  once  trod,  and  where  so  many 
brave  men  once  suffered,  through  the  storms  ,and  jlpkness  of  win- 
ter, all  the  horrors  of  poverty  and  privation,  Aat  they  might  trans- 
mit to  us  the  blessed  privileges  we  enjoy.  Glorious  men!  Great 
was  the  distress  they  endured,  while  spending  the* winter  months 
amid  these  grand  and  gloomy — these  sublime  and  solitary  scenes; 
which  now  look  as  brilliant  ar>d  beautiful  as  though  no  sigh  of 
sorrow,  no  groan  of  anguish  had  ever  been  repeated,  amid  these 
romantic  and  renowned  woods,  on  the  silver  shell  -of  echo. 

Valley  Forge  is  indeed  a  grand  and  gloomy;  a  sublime  and 
solitary  spot;  though,  to  my  eye,  speaking  paradoxically,  its  very 
gloomy  grandeur  gave  it  a  glorious  brilliance  and  beauty,  and  as- 
sociation threw  around  it  a  romance,  greater  than  even  that  with 
which  it  was  invested  by  its  sublime  scenery;  its  lone  and  lofty 
solitudes.  Approaching,  the  eye  of  the  traveller  rests  upon  three 
vast  bodies  of  sloping  woodland  which,  in  two  places,  are  con- 
nected in  the  form  of  an  isoceles  triangle.  To  the  eastward  of 
this  scene  rises  the  sad  and  solitary  hill  where  the  ragged,  half  fed 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  113 

heroes  of  the  revolution  were  encamped,  and  spent  the  winter  in 
want  and  woe,  which  alas!  the  Government  was  too  poor  to  alle- 
viate. The  spot  is  surrounded  by  high  hills,  covered  with  dense 
woods;  and  if  it  has  a  grand  and  gloomy  aspect  now,  what  must 
it  have  been  in  the  year  1777,  before  the  hand  of  art  had  set  the 
wheels  of  industry  in  motion,  and  had  much  encroached  upon  the 
domain  of  nature?  We  observed  a  cotton  factory,  but,  as  it  was 
the  Sabbath,  it  was  closed.  After  visiting  the  spot  where  the  Con- 
tinental, or  rather  the  American  army  encamped,  we  went  in  pur- 
suit of  that  immortalized  character,  "the  oldest  inhabitant,"  whom 
we  found,  and  from  whom  we  gathered  what  we  desired — some 
incidents  on  which  to  found  a  Revolutionary  Tale. 

Having  accomplished  our  object,  we  departed  for  Norristown. 
The  first  part  of  the  road  was  wet,  stony  and  disagreeable;  but 
changed  in  its  character  as  we  advanced.  At  Norristown  there  is 
a  very  extensive  bridge  crosses  the  Schuylkill,  so  extensive  indeed 
that,  in  perspective,  it  looked  like  the  tunnel  at  Phoenixville.  This 
is  a  pretty  town,  well  paved,  and  has  many  fine  buildings;  but,  as 
we  did  not  remain  more  than  an  hour  or  two,  we  had  but  little 
opportunity  to  view  it.  We  stopped  at  the  excellent  hotel  of  Mr. 
Markley,  where  we  had  a  good  dinner  of  broiled  chicken,  which 
disappeared  instanter,  as  the  hour  was  late,  and  we  were  hungry. 
At  the  table  d'hote,  we  were  waited  on  by  two  gay  and  graceful 
fils  de  chambre,  at  whom  I  could  occasionally  detect  my  compan- 
ion in  the  act  of  stealing  a  sneaking  glance.  In  the  hall,  we  met 
and  conversed  vtithf.gpe  of  the  most  agreeable  and  communica- 
tive young  ladies,  ^w^fti  whom  it  was  our  good  fortune  to  be  in- 
troduced. 

After  giving  our  faithful  horse  sufficient  time  to  refresh  himself 
we  left  Norristown,  and  turned  our  faces  towards  the  land  of  the 
Blue  Hen's  Chickens,  dear  little  Delaware.  In  passing  along  the 
road,  I  coyld  not  keep  my  eyes  from  the  rich  fields,  that  seemed 
to  groan  beneath  the  luxuriant  corn,  of  which  an  enormous  crop 
will  be  produced  this  year,  from  the  circumstance  of  farmers  hav- 
ing planted  more  than  usual,  they  having  been  frightened  at  the 
cold  spring,  which  portended  a  failure  and  a  famine. 

As  we  approached  the  Paoli,  which  is  aboui  twelve  miles  from 
West  Chester,  my  mind  dwelt  upon  the  awful  tragedy  which  was 
enacted  there,  a  short  time  after  the  battle  of  Brandywine.  The 
reader,  acquainted  with  history,  will  remember,  that  Washington 
ordered  General  Wayne,  with  a  detachment  of  1,500  men,  into 
the  rear  of  the  British  army;  and  that  they  were  surprised  at  the 
15 


114  WRITINGS   OP  THE   MlLFORD   BARD. 

Paoli,  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  by  General  Gray,  aided  by  some 
lories,  and,  before  Wayne  could  form  his  men  in  battle  array,  be- 
tween fifty  and  sixty  were  massacred  in  cold  blood.  Wayne  with 
his  right  wing  sustained  a  fierce  assault,  until  he  could  direct  a 
retreat;  but  that  cowardly  attack  by  Gen.  Gray,  cost  the  American 
army  three  hundred  brave  men. 

Chester,  aided  by  other  counties,  and  the  city  of  Philadelphia, 
purchased  twenty  or  more  acres  encircling  the  massacre  ground, 
and  reared  a  mound,  containing  the  bones  of  the  butchered  brave, 
on  which  a  marble  monument  has  been  erected,  surrounded  by  a 
brick  wall.  We  stood,  with  strange  feelings,  on  the  spot  where 
sleep  the  heroes,  who  were  pinned  to  the  earth  by  the  bayonet  on 
that  dreadful  night,  September  20th,  1777. 

About  sunset,  under  a  gentle  shower  of  rain,  we  again  entered 
the  quiet  and  beautiful  town  of  West  Chester.  As  we  could  not 
accept  of  Mr.  Brown's  polite  invitation  to  dine  with  him,  when 
passing  through,  we  now  stopped  at  the  Mansion  House,  kept  by 
him;  its  large  airy  rooms,  comfortable  arrangement,  extensive  din- 
ing and  reading  rooms,  and  spacious  yard,  forcibly  reminded  me 
of  Barnum's  City  Hotel,  Baltimore;  which,  the  reader  will  recol- 
lect, was  the  only  hotel  that  Dickens,  the  English  author,  eulo- 
gized, when  in  America.  The  very  first  man  who  took  us  by 
the  hand,  when  we  alighted,  was  a  Blue,  Hen's  Chicken  from 
Wilmington. 

The  Mansion  House  at  West  Chester  is  decidedly  the  most 
sumptuous  public  house  I  have  visited  for  a  long  time,  and  its  pro- 
prietor, Mr.  Brown,  the  most  attentive,  polite  and  agreeable  host. 
The  reading  room  contains  papers  from  all  parts  of  the  United 
States.  A  gentleman  informed  us,  that  more  than  three  hundred 
persons,  on  one  day,  dined  at  the  Mansion  House,  during  the 
sitting  of  court;  and  that  the  house  has  sixty  regular  boarders. 
Every  thing  is  comfortable  and  convenient;  the  waiters  are  atten- 
tive and  polite;  the  table  luxurious  and  plentiful.  My  associate 
was  captivated  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Brown;  for  when  at  bed- 
time he  complained  of  being  unwell,  that  gentleman  was  very  at- 
tentive, and  seemed  to  evince  much  solicitude.  We  went  up  to 
the  balcony,  from  whence  we  had  a  full  view  of  the  town,  and  of 
the  country  many  miles  around.  The  sun  was  up  in  the  eastern 
heavens,  and  the  scene  of  a  smiling  country,  arrayed  in  its  rich 
robe  of  green,  was  delightful. 

After  breakfast,  we  met  on  the  street,  and  conversed  with  the 
liberal,  generous-hearted,  public-spirited  Mr.  Everhart ;  who,  we 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  115 

are  told,  has  been  a  benefactor  to  the  town  of  West  Chester.  By 
industry  he  has  acquired  wealth,  and  he  uses  it  to  good  purpose. 
He  has  built,  or  had  built,  some  of  the  finest  houses  in  the  town; 
and  his  liberal  hand  is  in  every  thing  which  has  for  its  object  the 
improvement  of  the  town.  I  have  heard  it  said,  that  Mr.  Everhart 
was  the  only  person  saved  from  the  wreck  of  the  ill-fated  ship 
Albion,  many  years  ago.  His  countenance  is  the  index  of  the 
kindly  feelings  of  his  heart.  As  we  went  up  to  bid  an  old  ac- 
quaintance farewell,  at  whose  house  we  had  been  the  evening 
previous,  I  for  the  first  time  noticed  the  Chester  County  Banking 
House,  which  I  mistook  for  a  church. 

At  eight  o'clock  we  left  West  Chester  for  Kennett  Square,  in 
and  around  which  there  were  many  tories  during  the  Revolution. 
A  mile  or  two  from  the  town  we  got  into  a  funeral  procession, 
which  must  have  had  nearly  a  hundred  carriages  in  it.  The  burial 
took  place  in  the  Friends  burial  ground,  in  Kennett  Square.  We 
stopped  for  dinner  at  the  hotel  of  Mr.  Wiley,  the  well  known  im- 
prover of  the  plough.  A  plough  stands  on  the  sign-post.  The 
tavern  house  served  for  the  British  barracks,  about  the  time  of  the 
battle  of  Brandywine. 

The  pretty  little  town  of  Kennett  Square  contains  about  500 
inhabitants,  and  is  graced  with  water  works,  a  thing  I  did  not  ex- 
pect to  find,  and  speaks  well  for  its  thriving,  industrious  people. 
In  their  yards,  filled  with  flowers,  they  exhibit  taste. 

After  dinner  we  left  for  Centreville;  and  while  riding  we  disco- 
vered a  snake  along  the  road,  which  my  associate  was  very  anx- 
ious to  get  out  and  kill.  "For  shame,"  said  I,  "let  the  poor 
creature  live,  as  God  intended.  He  is  in  his  native  wilds.  If  he 
were  to  encroach  upon  your  domicil,  you  would  have  a  moral 
right  to  kill  him;  for,  as  Cowper  says,  'a  necessary  act  incurs  no 
blame.'  Every  man's  hand  is  lifted  against  that  poor  proscribed 
creature,  and  therefore  I  pity  him.  If  you  do  not  disturb  him,  he 
will  not  disturb  you."  This  appeal,  to  one  who  has  naturally  a 
generous  heart,  had  the  desired  effect;  for  his  wish  to  kill  the 
snake  was  but  the  impulse  of  a  moment.  His  kindly  feelings 
were  awakened  from  a  momentary  sleep,  and  we  rode  on,  leaving 
the  poor  denizen  of  the  forest  to  enjoy  life. 

We  stopped  at  a  temperance  tavern  near  Centreville,  with  the 
view  of  getting  our  horse  watered;  and,  though  we  desired  no 
drink,  we  called  for  some  Sarsaparilla,  as  a  kind  of  compensation 
for  watering  the  horse.  But  no  hostler  came.  I  said  aloud,  "our 
horse  wants  water;"  but  the  lady  said  nothing.  The  horse  whick- 


116  WRITINGS    OP  THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

ered  for  water,  and  the  landlord  passed  by  him,  standing  alone, 
but  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  him.  We  had  to  carry  the  water 
some  distance  ourselves,  and  water  the  horse,  though  we  expected 
to  pay  a  "  fip  "  to  the  hostler.  My  companion  agreed  with  me,  that 
if  all  temperance  houses  are  equally  inattentive  to  travellers,  it  is 
no  wonder  they  dd  not  succeed.  At  all  other  taverns,  an  hostler 
came  the  moment  we  stopped. 

We  were  treated  very  politely  at  the  public  house  of  Mr.  Rob- 
inson, in  Centreville,  where  we  soon  after  arrived.  After  visiting 
a  lady,  w«  returned  to  the  hotel,  where  a  man,  on  being  told  who 
I  was,  disputed  my  being  the  Milford  Bard,  as,  he  said,  I  was  too 
young  looking  a  man.  "  Why,"  said  he,  "  I  have  read  his  writings 
more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Indeed  he  can't  be  the  man."  He 
did  not  know  that  I  wrote  my  first  poetic  article  at  ten  years  of 
age,  at  school,  addressed  to  my  little  dulcinea  about  knee  high, 
and  that  I  have  been  scribbling  ever  since.  When  I  look  back 
upon  that  green  spot  on  the  waste  of  memory,  how  rapid  appears 
the  flight  of  time!  Happy  days,  departed  never  to  return! 

We  left  Centreville  about  four  o'clock,  and -arrived  at  Wilming- 
ton before  sunset,  as  safe  and  sober  as  we  started,  well  pleased 
with  our  little  tour  through  one  of  the  paradises  of  Pennsylvania. 


Monument 


Lines  on  seeing  the  sunlight  fall  on  the  head  of  the  statue  of  Washington,  on  the 
Washington  Monument,  Baltimore,  on  the  Fourth  Day  of  July. 

FATHER  of  Freedom,  on  thy  brilliant  brow, 
Where  reason  sat  the  monarch  of  the  mind; 

I  see  heaven's  glorious  sunlight  streaming  now, 
As  still  thy  glories  shine  upon  mankind. 

Father  of  Freedom,  at  thy  sacred  shrine 
A  nation  kneels,  in  homage  to  thy  name; 

To  catch  the  spirit  of  thy  deeds  divine, 
And  send  it  down  the  tide  of  time  to  fame. 

The  thunder  of  a  thousand  hills  this  day, 

Rolls  on  the  Prean  of  thy  praise  afar;  „  » 

While  on  thy  lofty  brow  the  sun's  bright  ray 
Now  shines,  like  glory's  everlasting  star. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  117 

A  halo  should  for  ever  circle  thee, 
Thou  friend  of  Freedom  and  of  deeds  sublime; 

For  had'st  thou  spurned  thy  love  of  liberty, 
Thou  might'st  have  ruled,  a  despot  o'er  this  clime. 

A  thousand  thrones,  in  glittering  glory,  ne'er 

Could  have  betrayed  or  won  thee  to  betray; 
Thy  noble  soul  was  never  born  to  fear, 

A  traitor's  tempting  or  a  tyrant's  tfway. 

In  all  things  noble  and  in  all  divine, 

The  child  of  glory  and  the  heir  of  fame;  H 

Fair  Baltimore  hath  reared  a  glorious  shrine, 

Where  thousands  bow  in  homage  to  thy  name. 


for 


• . 

LOOK  down,  illustrious  souls,  look  down, 

Aed  say  to  Greece  be  free; 
Look  from  Empyrean  fields,  and  frown 

On  Turkish  tyranny; 
Shake  heaven's  high  halls  with  dreadful  ire, 

Send  thunder  from  the  skies, 
Wrap  Moslem  towers  in  flaming  fire, 

Till  the  strong  demon  dies. 

•   f. 

Great  spirits  of  the  fallen  brave, 

Tread  now  thy  classic  shore, 
The  sun  of  Greece  in  Freedom's  grave, 

Has  set  to  rise — no  more. 
Her  lamp  of  learning,  once  so  bright, 

That  lit  a  hundred  hills, 
Hath  long  since  set  in  endless  night, 

Dark  woe  her  bosom  fills.  + 

Her  halls,  where  once  sweet  rapture  rung, 

No  sounding  lyre  now  sighs; 
But  where  was  heard  the  trumpet  tongue, 

Are  heard  but  shrieks  and  cries; 
And  there  the  crimson  crescent  waves, 

Where  once  the  lyceum  stood, 
The  cross  in  Grecian  gore  still  laves, 

The  moon  doth  blush  in  blood. 


118  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Look  down,  immortal  Thunderer,  look 

On  Homer's  happy  land, 
Thou  who  the  heavens  and  earth  hath  shook, 

Preserve  the  brilliant  band; 
And  from  her  dungeon  drag  once  more, 

The  genius  of  the  brave, 
Then  Greece  shall  dig,  in  human  gore, 

The  Turkish  tyrant's  grave. 


t  lust  patriot, 

OP  .THOSE  WHO  SIGNED  THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

WHERE  are  those  great  immortal  sires, 
Who  ruled  the  western  world, 

Whose  daring  hands, 

With  flaming  brands, 
Proud  usurpation  hurled; 
And  where  are  those  whose  deeds  divine 
Live  on  the  eternal  scroll, 

Whose  names  shall  shine 

On  freedom's  shrine, 
While  endless  ages  roll. 

Illustrious  souls  ye  dwell  on  high, 
In  heaven's  ethereal  halls, 

But  ne'er  shall  shame  ^ 

Enshroud  your  fame, 
Till  freedom's  fabric  falls. 
Ye  brilliant  sons  whose  light  we  prize, 
Gone  down  the  sky  of  time, 
Yet  doth  arise 
In  other  skies, 
To  shine  with  light  sublime. 

Soon  shall  the  last  illustrious  star 
From  glory  sink  to  gloom; 

But  freedom's  light 

Shall  gild  the  night 
That  clouds  Columbia's  tomb. 
His  monument  shall  joy  impart 
To  him  who  reads  his  name; 

Unbuilt  by  art, 

Within  the  heart,  f 

Shall  live  his  deathless  fame. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  119 

Not  one  ere  long  of  all  the  band, 
Who  in  Columbia's  cause, 
Redeemed  in  fight 
The  rule  and  right 
Of  liberty  and  laws, 
Will  here  remain;  but  long  enrolled 
On  Fame's  pure  page  shall  stand, 
Bright  to  behold, 
In  burnished  gold, 
The  names  of  Freedom's  band. 

Of  all  the  sages  none  remain 
But  Patriot  Carroll,  he, 

Weighed  down  by  time, 
'Mid  scenes  sublime, 
•    Stands  like  an  aged  tree; 
Where  Franklin  sleeps,  and  Washington 
Lies  in  his  country's  tomb, 
He  soon  must  rest 
By  millions  blest, 
A  sad  tho'  glorious  doom. 


in  Irisr! 


O  ERIN!  thou  queen  of  the  ocean,  arise, 
Seize  the  lightnings  that  'lumine  the  vault  of  the  skies, 
Grasp  the  weapons  of  war,  for  thy  valor  is  known, 
And  the  tyrant  shall  tremble  on  Albion's  throne. 

Go  forth  like  a  flame,  in  the  forest  afar, 
Sound  the  trump  of  thy  triumph  from  liberty's  car, 
Rend  the  chains  of  oppression — be  monarchy  hurled, 
And  thy  glory  shall  gladden  the  gloom  of  the  world. 

Th '  avalanche  of  the  Alps  shall  not  strike  more  alarms 
To  dread  monarchy's  monsters,  than  Ireland's  arms; 
An  eruption  of  ^Etna  less  dread  shall  impart, 
Than  the  valor  of  Erin,  best  vein  of  her  heart. 

How  long  shall  the  sceptre  of  slavery  wave 

O'er  the  wish  of  the  world,  and  the  blades  of  the  brave? 

How  long  shall  the  crown  and  the  crosier  unite, 

To  extinguish  the  lamp  of  thy  liberty's  light? 


120  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

How  long  shall  the  weapons  thy  warriors  wore, 
Cease  to  spread  the  red  gush  of  tyrannical  gore  ? 
How  long  shall  the  grave  of  thy  glory  be  viewed, 
Where  the  tomb  of  the  tyrant  should  glitter  with  blood  ? 

O  Erin !  arise,  in  the  strength  of  thy  might, 

Go  forth  in  thy  pride  to  the  field  of  the  fight: 

Let  the  wrath  of  thy  wrongs  nerve  the  arm  of  the  brave, 

And  the  march  of  the  monarch  shall  be  to  the  grave. 

Bid  the  angel  of  death  visit  Erin  once  more, 
Wake  thy  engines  of  thunder  ort  every  shore, 
Wrap  the  ranks  of  oppression  in  floods  of  thy  fire, 
And  the  doom  of  the  despot  the  world  shall  admire. 

Then  shall  freedom  walk  forth  in  thy  gardens  again, 
And  the  voice  of  her  victory  sound  o'er  the  main; 
Then  millions  unborn  shall  rejoice  in  the  cause, 
That  gave  Ireland  liberty  —  liberty  laws. 

O  hasten  the  hour  when  the  flame  shall  retire, 
And  the  breast  of  the  brave  of  all  Europe  shall  fire; 
When  each  tyrant  shall  fall,  and  when  tyranny  hurled, 
The  banner  of  freedom  shall  wave  o'er  the  world. 


Cupib  in  (Baib. 

\<r 

YOUNG  Cupid  roved  upon  the  strand, 

In  tenderness  and  tears; 
Far  from  his  love  and  native  land, 

And  all  that  life  endears. 


He  stood  upon  the  sounding  shore, 

And  saw  the  ship  depart; 
He  turned  his  eye  to  home  once  more, 

While  sorrow  pierced  his  heart. 

Then  as  on  Hope's  sweet  anchor  nigh, 
He  leaned,  with  joy  sincere, 

He  breathed  to  sorrow  one  last  sigh, 
And  dashed  away  a  tear. 


ONO-KEO-CO, 


O  R 


'  Let  them  blast  me  now ! 
I  stir  not— tremble  not!  these  rocky  shores 
Whose  date  o'erawes  tradition,  gird  the  home 
Of  a  great  race  of  kings,  along  whose  line 
The  eager  mind  lives  aching,  through  the  darkness 
Of  ages  else  unstoried,  till  its  shapes 
Of  armed  sovereigns  spread  to  godlike  port, 
And  frowning  in  the  uncertain  dawn  of  time, 
Strike  awe,  as  powers  who  ruled  an  elder  world, 
In  mute  obedience." — TRAGEDY  OF  ION. 


'T  was  at  that  eventful  period  of  the  world  when, 
[driven  by  oppression,  the  pilgrims  of  Europe 
were  seeking  a  home  in  the  mighty  wilderness 
of  the  western  world,  that  this  story  commences. 
)I  say  eventful,  for  never  since  the  foundation  of 
'the  world,  has  there  been  a  period  so  eventful  as 
at  in  which  this  continent  was  discovered  and 
sealed,  whether  we  view  it  in  respect  to  com- 
merce, science,  invention,  or  general  discovery. 
The  dark  days  of  Gothic  and  Vandal  barbarity 
were  passing  away,  and  the  world  was  emerging 
from  the  gloom  that  was  produced  by  their  long 
reign  of  tyranny  and  oppression,  during  which 
the  chains  of  despotism  had  rattled  on  the  mind, 
as  well  as  the  limbs  of  liberty.  The  same  cen- 
tury that  gave  this  mighty  continent  to  civilized 
men,  also  gave  to  the  world  the  great  and  glorious  art  of  printing, 
the  fountain  of  light,  the  flood-gate  of  knowledge,  at  which  Soc- 
rates, Plato,  and  all  the  glorious  philosophers  of  Greece,  would 
stand  astonished,  could  they  rise  from  the  tombs  of  oriental 
genius. 
16 


122  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

The  discovery  of  this  continent  produced  a  great  jubilee  in  the 
family  of  nations,  for  thereby  was  brought  to  light  a  nation  of  red 
men,  long  lost,  and  the  language  of  prophecy  was  fulfilled — "I  will 
give  thee  the  Heathen  for  an  inheritance,"  and  "the  desert  shall 
blossom  like  the  rose."  The  sons  of  civilization  have  proven  too 
strong  for  the  benighted  wanderers  of  the  wilderness;  the  forest 
has  disappeared  before  the  axe  of  the  pioneer;  cities  have  sprung 
up,  as  if  by  magic,  on  the  banks  of  rivers,  and  the  white  sails  of 
commerce  have  banished  the  bark  canoes  of  the  Indians.  Truly 
has  the  desert  blossomed  like  the  rose. 

But  the  reader  must  be  informed  that  this  story  does  not  com- 
mence at  the  era  of  the  discovery  of  this  country,  but  during  the 
first  settlement  of  the  state  of  Delaware.  It  begins  at  a  time 
when  not  only  the  forest  of  Delaware  echoed  the  war-whoop  and 
yell,  but  when  the  whole  country  swarmed  with  the  dusky  forms 
of  the  descendants  of  the  lost  tribes  of  Israel.  This  country  then 
was  a  great  Indian  Empire;  but  where  now  are  the  immense 
hosts  that  then  assembled  in  battle  array?  Where  are  the  myriads 
that  made  the  mighty  swamps  of  Sussex,  and  the  banks  of  the 
Brandy  wine,  echo  the  war-whoop?  Where  are  they,  who  gathered 
at  the  council  fire,  and  mingled  in  the  war  dance?  Ay,  where  are 
the  tall,  straight,  graceful  warriors,  who  wooed  their  dusky  damsels 
in  the  beautiful  bowers  of  the  rock  embattled  Brandy  wine?  They 
are  gone  like  the  leaves  that  fell  upon  its  swift  waters.  The  tide 
of  civilization  has  rolled  over  them,  and  a  remnant  only  remains  of 
the  once  proud  and  numerous  tribe  of  the  Delavvaras. 

It  was  on  a  dreary  day,  in  the  month  of  December,  that  a  party 
of  emigrants  landed  at  Lewistown,  in  the  Colony  of  Delaware, 
then  called  Hoarkill,  and  prepared  to  strike  into  the  wilderness,  to 
rear  a  home  far  away  from  the  land  that  contained  the  ashes  of 
their  ancestors,  and  all  the  fond,  endearing  recollections  of  child- 
hood. Heroic  hearts  were  theirs,  thus  to  go  forth  into  a  wild 
wilderness,  among  a  fierce  and  warlike  people,  to  whom  the  mer- 
ciful precepts  of  the  Gospel  had  never  been  taught,  but  who  were 
prone  by  nature  to  revenge  the  slightest  wrong,  whether  real  or 
imaginary. 

Among  that  band  of  adventurers  were  English,  Dutch  and 
Swedes,  who  from  different  vessels,  had  landed  at  Lewistown,  as 
a  starting  point.  Nicholas  Brabant  was  chosen  the  leader,  who, 
on  account  of  his  fearless  and  determined  spirit,  acquired  the  ap- 
pellation of  Old  Nick.  His  wife  was  a  beautiful  English  woman, 
who  had  acquired  from  him  a  daring,  fearless  spirit.  She  had  be- 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  123 

longed  to  a  high  and  distinguished  family  in  England,  and  had 
been  educated  in  all  the  accomplishments,  as  well  as  the  solid 
acquirements  of  that  age.  She  had  by  some  unaccountable 
magic,  like  that  possessed  by  Othello,  fallen  in  love  with  Nick, 
who  was  then  her  father's  footman,  and  having  eloped  with  him, 
was  repudiated  or  disowned.  With  that  devotion  which  belongs 
to  woman,  she  resolved  to  share  his  fortune,  whatever  it  might  be; 
and  when,  by  persecution,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  fly  from  Eng- 
land, she  resolved  to  forsake  her  native  land  and  those  who  had 
forsaken  her,  and  go  with  him  to  the  wilds  of  America,  to  dwell 
among  the  dark  browed  children  of  the  forest. 

Thrown  by  a  storm  on  Cape  Henlopen,  they  landed,  and  Nick 
made  up  his  mind  to  try  the  dangers  of  the  deep  no  further,  but  to 
push  immediately  into  the  forests,  and  become  the  lord  of  a  little 
empire.  To  this  all  the  emigrants  then  at  Levvistown,  agreed,  and 
the  whole  party,  accordingly,  set  out  on  their  journey  into  the 
dense  woods  that  then  lined  the  shores  of  the  Delaware,  beset  by 
many  difficulties  and  dangers. 

Save  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  wife  of  Nicholas  Brabant, 
there  was  none  of  the  party  closely  connected  with  him  but  one, 
and  that  was  one  of  the  most  lovely  children  that  ever  blest  a 
father's  heart.  Lelia,  the  little  daughter,  was  extremely  beautiful, 
the  very  transcript  of  the  mother;  and  when  I  describe  the  one, 
you  have  the  exact  portrait  of  the  other.  Lelia  had  arrived  at  that 
most  interesting  and  attractive  period  in  childhood,  when  she  was 
just  beginning  to  prattle  and  run  about,  and  it  was  the  joy  of  the 
father,  when  the  party  stopped  for  refreshment,  to  amuse  himself 
with  his  child,  as  she  ran  about  the  forest,  or  climbed  his  knee, 

"To  slyly  steal  a  kiss." 

Her  features  were  of  the  Grecian  mould;  her  nose  in  nearly  a 
straight  line  from  the  forehead;  her  lips  full  and  red;  a  high  broad 
forehead;  her  chin  beautifully  moulded  ;  her  complexion  waxy  and 
rosy;  her  face  oval:  her  teeth  small,  even  and  white,  and  her  au- 
burn hair  falling,  in  clustering  curls,  like  grapes  of  gold  on  her 
neck  and  bosom,  that  were  smooth  as  marble  and  white  as  alabaster. 
With  this  varying  description  of  her  beauty,  I  may  add,  that 
her  form  was  slender  and  graceful,  but  her  eye — heavens!  no  lan- 
guage is  adequate  to  its  delineation — the  painter's  pencil  would 
fail  to  portray  it!  Like  that  of  her  mother,  it  was  hazel,  and  had 
in  it  an  expression  of  voluptuous  softness,  a  melancholy  glance,  a 


124  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

melting  tenderness,  &je  ne  scais  quoi,  that  is  irresistibly  touching 
to  the  beholder. 

Nicholas  devotedly  loved  his  wife;  not  only  as  other  men  do, 
for  the  return  of  her  affection,  but  he  loved  her  in  gratitude,  that 
she  had  over-stepped  &e  barriers  of  aristocratic  life,  and  stooped 
to  the  humble  station  of  a  footman.  His  child,  Lelia,  he  abso- 
lutely worshipped.  She"  was  the  little  angel  of  his  idolatry,  and 
never  did  a  Hindoo  bow  with  more  devotion  to  Vishnu,  than  did 
he  to  Lelia.  It  was  the  intention  of  Mrs.  Brabant  to  educate  her 
child  herself,  as  indeed  she  would  be  likely  to  find  no  other 
teacher  in  the  wilds  of  Delaware.  ,j-  . 

The  party,  headed  by  Brabant,  moved  onward,  through  the 
forests  along  the  Delaware  Bay,  which  have  disappeared  before 
the  axe,  and  where  cultivated  fields  are  now  seen.  None  of  the 
party  were  accustomed  to  such  scenes,  and,  of  course,  knew  not 
the  many  dangers  that  surrounded  them. 

Wearied  with  their  long  days  march,  in  the  midst  of  a  snow 
storm,  they  halted  on  the  borders  of  a  swamp;  built  their  fires, 
and  commenced  preparing  their  frugal  meal.  That  having  been 
prepared  and  despatched,  they  made  arrangements  for  sleep,  and, 
after  a  time,  all  were  snugly  stretched  for  repose.  The  distant 
howling  of  wild  beasts  for  a  considerable  time  kept  them  awake, 
but  at  length  finding  that  they  came  no  nearer,  one  after  another 
fell  away  into  the  arms  of  Morpheus,  notwithstanding  the  fact,  that 
the  cold,  cheerless  blast  was  roaring  among  the  pines  with  a  mel- 
ancholy sound,  and  the  snow  was  falling  fast  around  them. 

Just  as  the  day  was  about  to  dawn,  when  the  flames  of  their 
fires  no  longer  glared  on  the  gloom  of  the  surrounding  forest, 
Nicholas  was  awakened  by  a  grappling,  as  if  some  person  were 
feeling  and  endeavoring  to  awaken  him.  He  partly  threw  off  the 
bed-clothes  or  blankets,  with  which  he  had  enveloped  his  head, 
and  merciful  Heaven!  he  was  greeted  by  the  gaze  of  a  pair  of  the 
most  awful  flaming  red  eyes  he  had  ever  beheld.  A  large,  black, 
shaggy,  demon-like  creature,  had  succeeded  in  getting  his  paws 
around  the  body  of  his  darling  child,  and  was  raising  her  so  gently 
from  her  resting  place,  that  she  had  not  been  awakened.  But  at 
this  moment  Mrs.  Brabant  awoke,  and  seeing  her  child  in  the 
arms  of  an  enormous  bear,  she  gave  one  wild  shriek  that  rung  in 
many  an  echo  through  the  gloomy  forest.  Neither  the  father  or 
mother  had  ever  seen  a  bear,  and  it  appeared  as  a  demon  of  the 
wilderness,  in  the  act  of  carrying  off  their  idolized  daughter. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  125 

It  is  well  known  that  the  bear,  like  the  boa  constrictor,  destroys 
its  prey  by  hugging  or  squeezing  until  life  becomes  extinct;  but, 
ere  the  ferocious  animal  had  time  to  do  this,  the  affrighted,  though 
fearless  father,  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  grajppled  with  the  monster. 
His  gun  was  his  first  thought,  but  then  he  might  shoot  his  child, 
for  the  bear  pertinaciously  refused  to  give'  up  his  hold,  until  Nick 
grappled  with  him,  and  they  together  rolled  down  the  hill.  At 
length,  having  relinquished  his  hold  upon  the  child,  the  bear  rose 
up  with  him,  until  he  stood  upon  his  hind  legs,  in  which  position 
the  battle  continued.  Bruin,  being  one  of  the  largest  of  the 
species,  was,  when  erect,  as  tall  as  his  antagonist,  and  much 
larger  in  the  body.  Before  the  sleepers  had  arisen,  the  bear  would 
have  overpowered  Nick,  had  not  his  wife  ran  to  his  assistance 
with  two  knives,  the  one  of  which  she  gave  to  her  husband,  while 
with  the  other  she  stabbed  the  animal  in  the  breast.  This,  at  first, 
only  rendered  him  more  furious,  and  he  must  have  inevitably 
proved  the  victor,  had  she  not  dealt  him  a  well  aimed  blow,  just 
behind  the  fore  leg,  which  reached  his  heart,  and  he  fell  dead  at 
their  feet. 

"You  have  saved  my  life,  my  dear  wife,"  exclaimed  Brabant,  as 
he  clasped  her  to  his  bloody  bosom. 

"And  you  have  saved  that  of  our  darling  child,"  returned  she. 
"But  oh!  see,  you  are  wounded — the  blood  is  pouring  from  your 
bosom.  Oh!  mercy,  you  are  wounded!" 

Nick  was  indeed  wounded.  The  claws  of  the  animal  had  severed 
a  small  blood  vessel,  but  his  wife  soon  staunched  it,  and  they  all 
went  to  work  to  skin  the  bear,  and  make  a  feast  of  the  flesh. 

After  the  feast,  they  journeyed  on  through  the  immense  swamps 
and  forests  of  Sussex,  occasionally  encountering  an  Indian 
hunter,  but  nothing  occurred,  until  night,  worthy  of  record.  At 
night  they  encamped  near  the  borders  of  another  great  swamp,  in 
which  they  lost  one  of  the  stoutest  and  most  useful  of  the  party. 
In  search  of  some  long  cedar  poles,  he  wandered  into  the  swamp 
alone,  until  he  lost  his  reckoning,  and  night  setting  in,  he  was 
unable  to  find  his  way  out.  In  the  darkness  of  the  night  they 
could  hear  his  cries,  but  could  not  go  to  him,  or  render  him  any 
assistance,  for  had  they  gone  into  the  swamp  they  would  have 
been  lost,  so  thick  was  the  darkness,  and  so  interminable  the 
swamp.  They  heard  his  cries  the  greater  part  of  the  night;  but, 
as  morning  approached,  his  voice  became  fainter  and  fainter,  until 
it  ceased.  Had  he  travelled  but  in  one  direction,  he  might  have 


126  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

found  his  way  out,  by  his  tracks  in  the  snow;  but  he  had  gone  in 
so  many  directions,  that  he  was  bewildered. 

The  next  day  they  found  him  dead  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  round 
which  he  had  ran  to  keep  himself  warm,  but  the  weather  being 
very  cold,  he  perished  before  the  morning  dawned. 

The  next  day  they  arrived  at  a  spot  where  they  resolved  to 
settle,  on  account  of  there  being  a  number  of  civilized  people 
there,  who  had  just  arrived,  and  who  would  stand  as  a  bulwark 
against  the  Indians. 

Nick  built  him  a  cabin,  and  his  example  was  followed  by  the 
other  men  of  the  party.  Mrs.  Brabant  now  devoted  herself  to  the 
education  of  her  daughter,  and  the  Indians  excited  by  curiosity, 
came  to  see  her  teach  her  child.  But  they  soon  became  afraid  of 
her,  and  declared  her  to  be  a  witch,  she  having  amused  them  by 
reading  and  writing.  She  wrote  upon  a  piece  of  paper,  what  the 
Indians,  through  an  interpeter,  told  her,  and  then  bade  them  take 
it  to  her  husband,  who  was  in  the  woods,  and  he  would  know 
what  they  had  said.  Upon  his  taking  the  paper  and  reading  aloud 
their  thoughts,  they  fell  down,  yelled,  and  declared  her  to  be  a 
witch.  They  could  not  conceive  how  the  piece  of  paper  could 
tell  to  him  what  they  had  thought  and  said.  From  that  time  they 
became  fearful  of  her,  and  shunned  her,  if  she  approached  them. 

But  although  her  immediate  neighbors  shunned  her,  the  story  of 
her  supernatural  powers  spread  through  the  country,  and  called 
vast  numbers  of  the  denizens  of  the  forest  to  her  cabin.  With  the 
minutest  curiosity,  yet  with  apparent  stoic  indifference,  they  ex- 
amined her  pen  and  paper,  for  they  conceived  that  there  must  be 
some  species  of  magic  in  them,  while,  at  the  same  time,  they  be- 
lieved that  she  was  endowed  by  the  Great  Spirit  with  supernatural 
powers,  thus  to  express  and  convey  on  paper  their  own  thoughts 
to  a  distant  person. 

Wawtawbrand,  a  brave  young  Chief,  came  from  what  is  called 
Mispillion  Neck,  near  where  Milford  now  stands,  attended  by  a 
host  of  warriors,  to  witness  the  wonderful  incantations  of  the  pale 
faced  squaw,  sent  by  the  Great  Spirit  to  enlighten  the  Indians. 
Had  not  this  notion  taken  possession  of  their  minds,  the  life  of 
Mrs.  Brabant  would  have  been  in  danger,  for  they  would  have  de- 
stroyed her  as  a  witch. 

Wawtawbrand,  who  determined  that  there  should  be  no  collu- 
sion, despatched  some  Indians,  with  Nick,  to  a  distance  in  the 
woods,  where  he  could  not  possibly  hear  what  was  said,  and  then 
communicated  his  thoughts  to  Mrs.  Brabant,  who  wrote  them  on 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARU.  127 

a  paper.  This  paper  he  cautiously  took  into  his  own  hands,  evi- 
dently betraying  a  superstitious  dread  of  it.  Attended  by  num- 
bers, who  were  as  curious  as  he,  he  repaired  to  Nicholas,  who  had 
not  moved  from  his  station  in  the  woods.  With  a  calm  counte- 
nance, yet  with  a  mind  full  of  wonder,  he  handed  the  mysterious 
oracular  paper  to  Nick,  who  immediately  read  aloud  the  thoughts 
of  Wawtawbrand,  which  thoughts  were,  that  the  Great  Spirit 
would  never  delegate  such  powers  to  mortal  man,  and  that  there 
must  be  some  imposition  in  the  matter;  but  that  if  Nick  could 
then  tell  what  he  had  said  to  his  wife,  he  would  believe  there  was 
no  cheat. 

Though  the  Indians  seldom  betray  any  expression  of  astonish- 
ment when  witnessing  any  exhibition  calculated  to  excite  wonder 
in  the  mind,  he  could  not  hide  his  emotions,  and  his  followers  fell 
down  in  adoration  before  him  and  his  wife. 

When  Wawtawbrand  presented  the  paper  to  Brabant,  he  placed 
his  ear  near  it  to  hear  what  it  said;  but  finding  that  it  did  not 
speak,  he  was  still  more  puzzled.  He  could  not  conceire  how 
the  little  crooked  marks,  the  letters,  could  convey  to  Nick  a 
knowledge  of  his  thoughts.  Still  more  were  they  astonished, 
when  they  were  told  that  little  Lelia  could  be  taught  to  do  the 
same. 

Mrs.  Brabant  called  the  Indians  around  her,  and  asked  them  if 
they  wished  to  see  themselves.  On  being  answered  in  the  affir- 
mative, she  produced  a  mirror,  or  looking  glass,  and  placed  it 
before  the  Chief  first.  Every  motion  he  made  was  repeated  by  the 
reflection,  or  by  the  other  Wawtawhrand,  as  he  called  it.  Many 
of  the  warriors,  who  feared  not  death  on  the  battle  field,  trembled 
with  a  superstitious  terror  as  they  gazed  upon  their  reflected  per- 
sons, for  they  could  not  account  for  it  in  any  other  way  than  by 
ascribing  it  to  the  power  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

By  these  means,  Brabant  and  his  wife  acquired  an  ascendency 
over  the  Indians.  They  believed  them  to  be  inspired  with  the 
power  of  the  Great  Spirit,  and  feared  to  offend  them.  They  did 
not  feel  thus  towards  the  rest  of  the  party,  for  it  was  not  long 
before  one  was  murdered,  and  the  threat  was  made  to  exterminate 
the  whole  number,  save  Brabant  and  his  family. 

The  Indians  being  numerous,  this  threat  would  have  been  car- 
ried into  execution,  but  for  an  ingenious  subterfuge.  A  vessel, 
from  Amsterdam,  had  been  stranded  on  the  shore  of  the  Delaware 
Bay,  on  board  of  which  was  a  cannon,  an  eighteen  pounder,  with 


128  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

a  vast  quantity  of  powder  and  shot,  intended  for  the  other  colo- 
nists further  up. 

At  this  time  a  wanderer  came  into  the  settlement,  who  imme- 
diately suggested  the  idea  of  bringing  the  gun  on  shore,  by  means 
of  which  they  could  keep  the  Indians  in  awe  and  subjection. 
This  man,  who  gave  the  name  of  Lander,  was  recognized  by  some 
of  the  Indians,  who  had  seen  him  on  the  Brandywine,  and  they 
vowed  vengeance  against  him  for  having  killed,  as  they  alleged, 
one  of  their  tribe. 

Lander  called  himself  a  Swede,  though  he  looked  more  like  a 
half  blooded  Indian.  With  assistance,  after  incredible  toil,  Lander 
managed  to  get  the  gun  on  shore,  and,  when  vast  numbers  of  In- 
dians assembled  around  it,  he  told  them  it  was  the  Great  Spirit, 
and  would  speak  whenever  the  Indians  did  anything  wrong. 

It  was  not  long  before  another  of  the  party  was  murdered,  but 
it  could  not  be  discovered  who  did  the  deed.  The  cannon  was 
loaded  and  fired,  to  prove  that  they  had  done  wrong.  At  the 
thundering  sound,  they  yelled  and  fell  down  before  it,  owning  that 
it  must  be  the  Great  Spirit,  for  nothing  human  could  speak  so 
loud. 

They  then  charged  the  cannon  with  shot,  and  bade  them  take 
hold  of  the  rope,  in  front  of  the  gun,  and  that  it  would  punish  the 
guilty.  The  fatal  match  was  applied;  a  tremendous  roar  rolled 
along  the  shore  and  reverberated  through  the  forest,  while  numbers 
fell  bleeding  and  writhing  in  death  agonies. 

By  this  means  great  numbers  were  slaughtered,  and  so  great 
was  their  superstitious  terror,  that  they  feared  to  disobey  the  order 
to  take  hold  of  the  rope,  being  assured  that  the  Great  Spirit  would 
punish  none  but  the  guilty.  Those  whom  Lander  and  the  colo- 
nists dreaded  most,  were  placed  near  the  cannon,  that  they  might 
certainly  be  blown  to  atoms.  Those  who  were  at  the  further  end 
of  the  rope  and  were  not  killed,  were  pronounced  good  Indians 
whom  the  Great  Spirit  loved. 

That  part  of  Sussex  County,  where  the  poor  Indians  were  thus 
exterminated,  is  now  called  Slaughter  Neck,  in  memory  of  the 
event  which  I  have  narrated.  The  reader  is  assured  that  this  part 
of  my  story  is  not  fabulous,  but  is  a  part  of  the  unwritten  History 
of  Delaware  which  has  been  handed  down  by  tradition,  as  Strabo 
informs  us  the  history  of  the  creation  was,  by  a  Chaldean  Shep- 
herd. I  have  wandered  in  the  woods  of  Slaughter  Neck,  which 
lies  not  many  miles  below  Milford,  and  is  bounded  by  the  Dela- 
ware Bay  on  the  east;  I  have  noticed  some  memorials  of  Indian 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  129 

life,  and  have  stood  upon  the  spot  where  the  children  of  the  forest 
fell  down  and  worshipped  the  cannon. 

We  are  informed  by  tradition  that  had  it  not  been  by  such  su- 
perstitious influences,  the  Indians  would  have  destroyed  every 
settlement  the  pale  faces  made. 

Nicholas  Brabant  was,  in  the  meantime,  clearing  the  forest,  and 
making  fences  around  his  farm.  His  wife  was  forgetting  the  pol- 
ished circles  of  society,  in  which  she  had  shone  in  England,  while 
engaged  in  the  education  of  her  daughter,  who  was  growing  up 
surpassingly  beautiful.  She  was  indeed  a  sylph;  her  cheeks 
bloomed  with  the  roses  of  health,  while  at  the  same  time  she  was 
delicate  and  graceful.  She  was  the  Diana  of  the  woods,  and 
many  a  strippling  warrior  looked  upon  her  with  greedy  eyes,  while 
in  her  girlhood,  but  she  deigned  not  to  notice  them.  While  old 
Nick  was  laying  the  foundation  of  wealth,  he  rejoiced  in  the  pos- 
session of  such  a  daughter,  his  only  child,  save  an  illegitimate  son 
in  England. 

But,  alas!  how  mutable  is  all  human  happiness!  In  the  mo- 
ment in  which  we  may  promise  ourselves  years  of  ecstatic  bliss, 
the  irrevocable  blow  of  sorrow  may  come. 

"Lander,"  said  Nick  one  day,  when  he  entered  his  cabin  weary 
with  toil,  "why  in  the  world  do  you  not  marry  and  become  a  hap- 
pier man?" 

"But  would  it  increase  my  happiness?"  enquired  Lander. 

"O,  vastly.  In  the  first  place,  you  would  have  those  with  you 
who  would  sympathize  in  your  joys  and  sorrows.  In  the  second 
place,  you  would  have  a  motive  for  exertion  and  toil,  and,  when 
weary,  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  were  con- 
tributing to  the  happiness  of  those  who  are  dearer  than  life.  In 
the  third  place,  you  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
you  would  live,  when  dead,  in  the  existence  of  your  children,  and 
not  become  extinct,  as  the  last  of  your  race,  like  a  poor  old  com- 
fortless bachelor." 

"True,  Nick,  but  my  happiness  is  not  so  easily  destroyed  as 
yours.  I  stand  alone,  and  nothing  extraneous  can  render  me  mis- 
erable, while  the  death  of  your  wife  or  child  may  blast  you." 

"That  is  very  true;  but,  on  the  contrary,  my  happiness  is  ex- 
quisite. The  very  thought,  that  I  am  now  making  a  paradise  for 
those  in  whom  I  shall  live  hereafter  cheers  me  amazingly,  while  I 
am  toiling  from  day  to  day.  You  have  no  motive  but  bare  self, 
and  labor  becomes  irksome."^ 

17 


130  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Brabant  rushed  into  the  cabin,  wringing 
her  hands,  and  exclaiming  in  piteous  accents, 

"Oh  God!  she  is  lost!— lost!— lost!     Fly,  oh  fly! " 

"What  is  the  matter,  for  Heaven's  sake?"  enquired  Nick,  as  he 
leaped  from  his  seat  and  seized  his  gun. 

"Our  daughter,  oh!  our  daughter,  poor  Lelia  is  gone — gone — 
gone!  I  saw  an  Indian  seize  her,  and  bear  her  away." 

As  Nick  rushed  from  the  cabin,  followed  by  Lander,  Mrs.  Bra- 
bant swooned,  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

"See  how  easily  your  happiness  can  be  destroyed,"  said  Lan- 
der, but  Nick  heard  him  not,  so  desperate  was  he  at  the  loss  of 
his  daughter.  His  imploring  cries  and  imprecations  were  pitiable, 
while  the  woods  wrung  with  the  name  of  Lelia.  Like  one  dis- 
tracted, he  ran  first  one  way  and  then  in  another  direction ;  but 
the  stalwart  Indian,  with  Lelia  in  his  arms,  was  gone.  He  stopped ; 
he  raved;  and  rent  his  garments;  and  then  falling  on  the  ground, 
gave  vent  to  a  burst  of  grief  that  the  distant  woods  echoed  back. 

When  the  sudden  deluge  of  distress  had  been  thrown  from  his 
heart  by  a  child  like  gush  of  tears,  he  returned  to  his  cabin,  to 
prepare  for  pursuit.  Mrs.  Brabant  had  recovered  from  her  swoon, 
and  was  the  very  impersonation  of  despair.  She  was  wringing 
her  hands  in  agony,  and  crying, 

"Oh!  Lelia,  my  child!  my  child!  Shall  I  ever  again  behold 
my  poor  Lelia,  my  darling  daughter. 

Lander  appeared  to  sympathize  deeply  in  their  distress,  and 
offered  to  accompany  Nick,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  fugitive,  who 
had  carried  off  his  daughter.  After  having  armed  himself,  he  de- 
parted, attended  by  Lander,  and  a  few  intrepid  warriors,  who 
were  the  followers  of  Lander,  and  who  had  come  with  him  into 
the  settlement. 

As  the  day  declined,  Mrs.  Brabant  became  anxious  for  the  return 
of  her  husband,  and  wandered  far  through  the  forest  in  the  hope 
of  meeting  him,  and  of  beholding  her  beautiful  Lelia.  It  was  at 
that  interesting  period  of  the  year,  when  Autumn  clothes  the  forest 
in  all  the  beautiful  hues  of  the  rainbow;  and  he  who,  even  at  the 
present  day,  has  not  travelled  through  the  immense  swamps  of 
Sussex  in  October  and  November,  has  never  witnessed  nature 
arrayed  in  her  most  gaudy  attire.  Amid  those  vast  swamps  are 
trees  of  almost  every  species,  the  leaves  of  which,  when  touched 
by  frost,  change  from  their  original  color,  to  golden,  azure,  purple, 
crimson,  and  indeed  all  the  hues  refracted  by  the  prism.  The  eye 
is  dazzled  by  their  magnificent  dyes,  amid  which,  contrasting 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  131 

beautifully  with  the  purple  of  the  persimmon,  and  the  crimson  and 
golden  tints  of  other  trees,  rises,  in  stately  grandeur,  the  tall  pine 
and  cedar,  with  their  eternal  green.  Gorgeous  and  glorious  beyond 
description,  do  the  swamps  of  Sussex  appear  in  Autumn. 

But  the  sublimity  of  nature  had  now  no  charms  for  her  whose 
mind,  refined  in  the  schools  of  England,  was  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  enjoyment  of  all  that  was  beautiful,  or  grand,  or  glorious. 
Grief  paralyzed  her  powers  of  perception  and  appreciation,  and 
obliterated,  for  the  time,  her  taste  for  the  magnificent  and  mighty 
works  of  the  Deity.  When  grief  takes  possession  of  the  mind,  it 
can  dwell  with  composure  only  on  its  sorrows. 

The  splendid  scenery  around  her,  the  gorgeous  hues  of  the  glo- 
rious landscape,  had  no  charms  for  her  now,  and  she  returned  to 
her  cabin  dejected  and  disconsolate.  The  soul  of  her  soul  was 
gone,  and  imagination  was  busy  in  picturing  the  fate  that  awaited 
her  Lelia.  Oh!  ye  who  are  the  parents  of  a  beautiful  darling 
daughter,  just  about  to  burst  into  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  woman- 
hood; ye  alone  can  fancy;  ye  alone  can  appreciate,  the  agonizing, 
the  heart  rending  feelings  and  thoughts  of  the  bereaved  father  and 
mother.  Fancy  to  yourselves  that  your  daughter,  beautiful  as 
Venus  and  lovely  as  Hebe,  is  carried  suddenly  away  from  your 
habitation,  without  a  moment's  warning,  by  an  Indian — fancy  that 
you  may  never  behold  her  again — fancy  her  fate  in  the  future,  and 
you  may,  in  some  degree,  realize  the  horrors,  the  grief,  the  agony, 
the  suspense,  into  which  the  parents  of  Lelia  were  thrown. 

It  was  the  hour  of  Indian  devotion.  The  sun,  in  all  his  brilliant 
glory,  was  just  sinking  behind  the  vast  woodlands  in  the  West, 
throwing  his  last  lingering  rays  over  the  golden  and  crimson  leaves 
of  the  forest,  which  in  the  distance  glowed  like  a  mighty  flood  of 
flame,  and  the  Indians,  on  their  knees,  with  their  faces  to  the  set- 
ting sun,  were  offering  up  their  orisons  to  the  Great  Spirit  But  she 
heeded  them  not.  She  retired  to  the  solitude  of  her  own  cabin, 
and  gave  up  her  soul  to  despair  and  unavailing  grief.  All  night 
did  she  listen  for  the  footsteps  of  her  returning  husband,  but  he 
came  not.  When  the  morning  blast  stirred  the  leaves  of  the 
forest,  she  started  up,  imagining  she  heard  the  voices  of  her  be- 
loved husband,  and  the  beautiful  Lelia,  but,  alas!  they  came  not. 

Aurora,  "fair  Goddess  of  the  morn,"  unbarred  the  golden  gates 
of  day,  and  extinguished  the  twinkling  lamps  that  hung  in  the 
great  hall  of  heaven ;  and  Sol  appeared  in  his  brilliant  chariot,  to 
drive  round  the  world  again ;  but  neither  Brabant  nor  his  followers 


132  WTUTINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

returned.     The  day  wore  away,  and  the  next  morning  came,  and 
still  they  returned  not. 

"Oh!  God  of  Heaven,"  she  exclaimed  in  the  fervent  language 
of  grief,  "is  it  not  enough  to  lose  my  darling  child,  but  must  I 
also  be  deprived  of  my  husband,  and  be  left  desolate  and  alone ! 
Oh  God !  avert  the  last,  if  I  am  irrevocably  doomed  to  lose  my 
daughter!" 

Thus  did  she  continue  to  exclaim,  and  wring  her  hands  in  pa- 
roxysms of  woe,  until  that  sleep,  to  which  grief  is  conducive,  over- 
powered her,  and  stretched  on  a  buffalo  hide,  she  wandered  nine 
hours  in  the  realms  of  Morpheus,  her  mind  filled  with  hideous 
dreams  of  the  murder  of  her  husband,  and  the  far  worse  fate  of  her 
daughter.  She  beheld  her  Lelia  struggling  in  the  arms  of  a  young 
Indian  warrior;  stretching  her  arms  in  despair,  and  imploring  help; 
and  starting  from  her  sleep,  she  wept  and  slept  again.  Anon  the 
bug-bears  of  the  brain  came  again,  and  she  saw  her  husband  fight- 
ing for  her  child — she  saw  him  grapple  with  the  Indian,  whose 
scalping  knife  glittered  in  her  gaze — a  moment  more,  and  she 
saw  it  plunged  to  his  heart,  and  saw  the  smoking  gore  as  it  gushed 
from  the  wound.  She  beheld  his  expiring  struggles,  and  his  dying 
groans  rung  on  her  ears.  Starting,  with  a  wild  shriek  of  anguish, 
she  awoke. 

Great  indeed,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  was  the  grief  of  Mrs. 
Brabant  at  the  loss  of  her  husband  and  daughter.  She  knew  not 
whether  they  had  been  murdered  or  carried  into  captivity,  and  her 
fancy  was  busy  in  picturing  a  thousand  horrors.  She  resolved, 
however,  to  go  in  pursuit  of  her  husband,  and  to  find  him  or  perish 
in  the  attempt.  With  this  view,  she  gathered. all  she  had  of  value, 
and  wrapping  herself  in  skins,  which  the  Indians  had  a  particular 
art  in  dressing,  she  dashed  into  the  interminable  forest,  then  con- 
sisting of  gigantic  trees  that  had  braved  the  storms  of  centuries, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  its  gloom. 

It  is  necessary  to  inform  the  reader  that  the  Indians,  who  occu- 
pied the  lower  part  of  the  State  of  Delaware,  were  called  the 
Nanticoke  Tribe,  a  branch  of  the  great  Lenni  Lenape,  afterwards 
called  the  Delaware  Tribe,  in  honor  of  Lord  De  La  War,  from 
whom  the  State  derives  its  name.  Many  great  tribes  sprang  from 
the  Lenni  Lenapes,  which  signifies  the  original  people,  and  which 
was  divided  into  three  tribes,  the  Turkey,  Turtle,  and  the  Monsey 
or  Wolf.  Their  possessions  extended  from  the  Potomac  to  the 
Hudson  river,  and  though  now  dwindled  to  a  handful,  they  at  one 
time  became  so  numerous  that  they  gave  origin  to  between  thirty 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  133 

and  forty  tribes.  Though  these  three  tribes  were  subdivided  into 
a  great  number  of  tribes,  which  had  their  separate  chiefs,  they 
always  acted  as  one  people  in  great  emergencies.  The  Dela- 
ware Bay  was  the  centre  of  their  possessions.  Tradition  informs 
us,  that  the  Lenni  Lenape,  or  Delaware  Tribe,  emigrated"  with 
the  Five  Nations  from  beyond  the  Mississippi,  and  that  they 
expelled  the  original  inhabitants  of  this  part  of  the  country. 

Poor  children  of  the  forest!  They  are  gone,  as  if  their  feet 
had  never  trodden  where  our  towns  and  farm  houses  now  stand. 
We  are  informed  that  the  last  of  the  Nanticoke  Indians  left  Dela- 
ware, from  near  the  town  of  Laurel,  Sussex  county,  about  the 
year  1748.  I  have  seen  the  spot,  near  that  town,  where  a  vast 
number  of  Indian  bones  were  disinterred,  there  having  been  a 
graveyard  there. 

No  one  knew  whether  Mrs.  Brabant  had  gone  to  Hoarkill,  now 
called  Lewistown,  or  whether  she  had  gone  North,  among  the 
Lenni  Lenape  or  Delaware  Indians,  who  were  numerous  along 
the  Brandywine. 

We  shall  now  return  to  the  beautiful  Lelia  Brabant,  who  had 
been  carried  off  at  the  instigation  of  Lander,  who  intended  to 
make  her  his  own  captive,  he  having  fallen  in  love  with  her  peer- 
less charms.  But  the  Indian,  who  had  been  employed  by  the 
Bandit,  Lander,  took  another  direction  with  the  lovely  captive, 
and  instead  of  conveying  her  to  the  home  of  the  Canai  Indians, 
on  the  Susquehanna,  he  carried  her  to  the  Lenni  Lenape,  whom 
we  shall  hereafter  call  the  Delaware  Indians,  well  knowing  that 
the  present  of  so  beautiful  a  captive  would  win  him  many  favors. 
Nor  was  he  deceived.  The  chief,  though  an  old  man,  was  enrap- 
tured with  her  charms,  and  the  great  warrior,  statesman  and  mo- 
ralist, the  great  and  good  Tamenend,  was  so  delighted  to  behold 
her,  that  he  begged  the  honor  of  giving  her  a  name,  which  was 
granted,  it  being  customary  when  a  captive  was  brought  in,  to 
give  an  Indian  name.  She  was  called,  by  the  good  Tamenend, 
Ono-keo-co,  the  Flower  of  the  Forest;  and  the  chief,  whose  name 
was  Kankinaw,  ordered  a  great  feast  to  celebrate  the  occasion. 

Lelia,  whom  we  shall  now  call  Ono-keo-co,  plead  with  prayers 
and  tears  to  be  restored  to  her  parents,  from  whom  she  had  been 
rudely  torn;  but  the  good  Tamenend  used  all  the  powers  of 
eloquence,  added  to  the  kindness  of  the  chief,  to  wean  her  from 
her  grief;  but  time,  that  great  healer  of  the  bleeding  heart,  could 
alone  dry  her  tears,  and  restore  her  to  composure. 


134  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

The  day  for  the  feast  arrived,  and  Ono-keo-co  was  arrayed  in 
gorgeous  robes,  decked  and  adorned  with  all  the  gaudy  trappings 
that  the  chief  could  purchase  of  the  pale  faces,  a  settlement  of 
whom  had  been  made  on  the  Christiana.  Her  symmetrical  form 
was  encased  in  a  short  frock  of  gray  embroidered  stuff,  and  large 
pantalets  of  silk,  somewhat  a  la  Turgue,  the  bottoms  of  which 
were  adorned  with  rich  beads  and  ribbands.  Her  small  delicate 
feet  were  encased  with  beautiful  moccasins,  made  of  skins,  and 
decked  with  beads,  in  the  forms  of  flowers ;  while  her  beautiful 
head,  which  was  covered  with  clustering  curls,  was  brilliant  with 
ornaments,  from  which  the  most  beautiful  feathers  rose,  and 
drooped  gracefully  over  her  finely  moulded  forehead.  She  looked 
indeed  like  a  princess,  and  the  Indians,  in  their  enthusiasm,  danced 
round  her,  and  gave  way  to  the  most  extravagant  and  fantastic 
expressions  of  joy.  Never  had  they  beheld  so  lovely  a  being,  and 
the  young  squaws  felt  abashed  at  her  beauty,  and  jealous  of  the 
power  of  her  charms,  for  they  saw  the  young  and  most  handsome 
warriors  gather  around  her  in  admiration.  First  one  would  ap- 
proach and  touch  her,  and  then  another,  and  then  burst  into 
screams  of  delight,  while  they  fell  and  rolled  upon  the  ground. 
The  joy  of  an  Indian  must  be  great,  thus  to  be  thrown  into  ecsta- 
sies; for  he  is  grave,  even  to  sadness,  in  his  usual  deportment. 

The  village,  in  which  Kankinaw,  the  chief,  resided,  was  about  a 
mile  up  the  Brandy  wine ;  but  the  feast  was  to  be  celebrated  at  a 
spot,  a  little  below  where  the  Brandywine  bridge  now  stands,  then 
covered  with  whortleberry  bushes.  Many  of  the  pale  faces  left 
their  settlement  on  the  Christiana  to  see  the  pageant,  which  they 
knew  would  be  a  gaudy  one,  from  the  great  number  of  trinkets 
and  gay  stuffs  which  the  Indians  had  bought  of  them. 

The  sun  was  just  rising  in  all  his  dazzling  glory  over  the  vast 
woods  of  Jersey,  when  the  hollow  sound  of  the  drum,  an  instru- 
ment used  by  the  Indians,  was  heard  far  up  the  Brandywine;  and, 
as  the  pageant  approached  nearer,  the  mingled  sounds  of  voices 
were  heard  faintly.  The  Brandywine  at  that  season  was  swollen, 
and  the  tide  came  down  with  a  rapid  sweep.  It  was  not  fang 
before  the  splendid  panorama  burst,  in  dazzling  beauty,  on  the 
eyes  of  the  beholders.  Not  even  Cleopatra  came  in  greater  pomp 
down  the  river  Cydnus  to  meet  Mark  Antony,  than  did  Ono-keo-co 
in  the  foremost  canoe,  attended  by  Kankinaw  and  the  great  Tam- 
enend.  The  pageant  consisted  of  one  hundred  canoes,  beautifully 
built  of  bark,  the  different  parts  of  which  were  dyed  of  different 
brilliant  colors,  and  lined  with  skins,  the  fur  of  which  was  of  the 


•  X  ., 

WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  135 

most  dazzling  white.  They  came  in  one  unbroken  line,  single  file, 
as  Indians  always  march  when  going  to  battle.  The  sight  was  bril- 
liant and  beautiful,  as  they  swept  gracefully  down  the  Brandywine, 
the  Indians  dressed  in  different  fantastic  costumes,  as  though  they 
were  going  to  a  masquerade.  Every  paddle  in  the  long  line  moved 
at  the  same  moment,  and  all  struck  the  water  at  the  same  time.  In 
the  front  canoe  stood  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co,  Kankinaw  sup- 
porting her  on  the  right,  and  the  great  statesman  and  warrior, 
Tamenend,  on  the  left.  The  woods,  on  both  sides  of  the  Brandy- 
wine,  were  filled  with  gazing  Indians,  who,  at  every  pause  in  -the 
song  sung  by  the  party,  raised  a  shout,  for  it  is  a  matter  of  strict 
etiquette  with  them  never  to  interrupt  those  who  are  speaking  or 
singing. 

When  the  long  line  of  canoes  arrived  at  the  landing  place,  they 
all  came  on  shore  to  spend  the  day  in  feasting  and  joy.  Ono- 
keo-co  was  conducted  to  a  kind  of  throne  and  bower,  made  of 
green  branches  and  covered  with  wild  flowers.  The  eyes  of  the 
young  warriors  followed  her  wherever  she  moved,  and  the  hearts 
of  the  young  squaws  throbbed  with  envy  and  jealousy.  The  whole 
party  were  seated  in  a  circle,  the  centre  of  which  was  the  throne 
of  Ono-keo-co;  and  the  wise,  the  amiable  "Tamenend,  whose 
memory  to  this  day  is  sacred  among  the  Delaware  and  other  tribes, 
commenced  an  address  to  Mannitto,  the  Great  Spirit,  thanking 
him  for  the  gift  of  an  angel  (Ono-keo-co,)  and  imploring  Him 
that  they  might  spend  the  day  in  peace  and  joy,  and  return  better 
and  happier  than  they  came. 

Every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  sage  while  he  spoke,  and  the 
most  profound  silence  prevailed  until  he  concluded.  Then  com- 
menced the  dance  around  Ono-keo-co,  whose  young  heart  almost 
forgot  the  poignancy  of  her  griefs  in  the  adoration  that  was  paid 
her.  One  of  the  old  squaws  sat  on  the  outside  of  the  circle, 
keeping  up  a  continual  thumming  on  a  kind  of  drum,  the  only 
instrument  of  music  used  by  the  Indians  in  their  dances.  The 
white  people  of  the  Christiana  settlement,  were  pleased,  as  they 
gazed  on  the  fantastic  costumes  of  the  Delawares,  whose  faces 
were  painted  in  the  most  grotesque  and,  to  them,  comical  manner, 
though  to  the  Indians  such  painting  was  the  very  acme  of  beauty. 

The  face,  and  cheeks  of  Ono-keo-co  needed  no  such  adornment, 
for  her  cheeks  and  lips  rivalled  the  rose,  and  her  complexion 
looked,  in  its  transparent  softness,  like  wax  which  has  been  puri- 
fied and  bleached  to  the  greatest  degree.  The  old  chief,  Kan- 
kinaw, whose  face  was  painted  in  stripes  of  red  and  blue,  with 


136  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

here  and  there  a  spot  of  green,  was  highly  delighted  during  the 
dance,  and  frequently  ran  to  embrace  Ono-keo-co,  on  whom  he 
bestowed  the  endearing  epithet  of  daughter. 

The  eye  of  the  not  less  shrewd  than  amiable  Tamenend  de- 
tected in  the  conduct  of  one  of  the  chief's  sons,  a  young  warrior 
of  great  promise,  a  newly  awakened  passion  for  the  beautiful,  the 
idolized  Ono-keo-co.  His  name  was  Neomock,  in  pronouncing 
which  the  emphasis  is  laid  upon  the  third  letter,  o.  He  sat  aloof 
from  the  joyous  assemblage,  moody  and  silent,  with  his  eye  ever 
and  anon  rivited  on  the  angelic  face  of  Ono-keo-co,  while  an  oc- 
casional sigh  broke  from  his  manly  bosom.  Though  the  lovely 
object  of  his  adoration  had  been  but  a  short  time  among  the  tribe, 
yet  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  his  brother,  Photobrand,  had 
conceived  a  passion  for  her,  and  it  was  on  this  account  that  he 
sighed,  for  his  brother  was  a  brave  daring  young  warrior,  impet- 
uous in  his  character  and  headstrong  in  his  disposition,  yet  into 
whose  soul  the  sage,  Tamenend,  had  instilled  the  highest,  holiest 
principles  of  honor,  and  the  nicest  sense  of  justice.  Gay,  viva- 
cious and  talkative,  the  passion  of  love  did  not  influence  him,  as 
it  did  his  brother.  In  the  heart  of  Neomock  it  swallowed  up 
every  other  feeling,  rendering  him  thoughtful,  abstracted  and 
moody,  while  it  seemed,  as  it  softened  the  heart  of  Photobrand, 
to  give  him  new  life,  and  make  him  in  love  with  everything  but  a 
rival,  and  that  he  never  had. 

While  the  party  were  spending  the  day  with  feasting  and  merri- 
ment, Neomock  sat  smoking  his  calmut  in  silence,  thinking 
moodily  of  the  new  passion  awakened  in  his  heart,  and  shuddering 
at  the  fancied  consequences  that  might  follow  a  rivalry  in  the 
affections  of  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co.  He  knew  that  if  his  sur- 
mises were  true,  that  if  Photobrand  had  formed  a  devoted  attach- 
ment he  would  never  relinquish  the  object  of  his  love  but  with 
his  life.  Jealousy  is  the  very  shadow  of  love,  and  the  one  is  a 
proof  of  the  existence,  as  well  as  the  degree,  of  the  other,  and 
hence  Neomock  ardently  hoped  his  belief  that  his  brother  loved 
her,  was  but  the  phantom  of  jealousy  conjured  up  in  his  own 
mind. 

While  he  thus  sat  gazing  upon  the  beautiful  creature,  whose 
power  over  him  was  increasing  every  hour,  he  beheld  Photobrand 
approach  Ono-keo-co,  to  take  her  small  white  hand  in  his,  and 
with  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  a  chief,  lead  her  to  the  dance. 
The  fires  of  hell  that  moment  burnt  upon  the  altar  of  his  heart. 
He  never  before  had  such  feelings.  His  dark,  scowling,  though 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

handsome  eye,  flashed  with  the  flame  of  jealousy,  and  the  strong 
warrior,  who  had  never  quailed  in  the  battle-field,  trembled.  He 
arose,  rapidly  paced  the  ground,  while  he  endeavored  to  avert 
his  eyes,  but  in  vain,  for  they  were  drawn  to  the  dancers  with  a 
mysterious  spell,  as  great  as  that  which  impels  the  bird  to  the  ser- 
pent, or  the  needle  to  the  magnet.  The  good  Tamenend,  though 
not  seeming  to  do  so,  watched  him,  as  the  power  of  contending 
passions  rent  his  soul.  He  saw  that  his  heart  was  writhing  in 
agony,  for  the  lightning  of  his  stormy  soul  gleamed  fearfully  on 
his  face,  and  Tamenend,  who  possessed  so  great  a  knowledge  of 
human  nature  that  the  Indians  believed  him  to  be  inspired  by  the 
Great  Spirit,  shuddered  at  the  consequences,  which  he  plainly 
foresaw  would  follow  if  the  two  brothers  should  become  rivals  in 
the  affections  of  Ono-keo-co.  They  were  both  fiery,  and  impatient 
of  opposition  as  well  as  of  restraint,  and  if  the  one  should  triumph 
over  the  other  in  winning  the  heart  of  Ono-keo-co,  he  knew  that 
the  rejected  one  would  revenge  his  wounded  feelings,  perhaps  in 
a  brother's  blood.  He,  therefore,  with  that  goodness  for  which 
he  was  famed,  feigned  an  ignorance  of  the  affair  and  kept  silent 
on  the  subject  even  to  the  chief,  well  knowing  that  to  expose  the 
matter,  would  hasten  whatever  catastrophe  was  to  follow.  The 
chief,  who  was  more  dull  in  apprehension  than  the  wise  Tame- 
nend, had  not  noticed  anything,  beyond  common  gallantry,  in  the 
conduct  of  the  two  young  warriors,  his  sons,  towards  her  whom 
he  had  adopted,  and  decked  with  the  regalia  of  a  princess. 

As  the  sun  was  sinking  over  the  boundless  woods  in  the  west, 
the  whole  party  repaired  to  their  canoes,  and,  in  the  order  they 
came,  they  returned  up  the  Brandywine,  singing  the  war-song 
which  celebrated  the  brave  deeds  of  the  tribe.  As  time  wore 
away,  so  did  the  griefs  of  the  young  Ono-keo-co;  for  the  youth- 
ful mind  cannot  long  remain  weighed  down  with  woe,  but  like 
the  elastic  bow  let  loose,  will  suddenly  return  to  its  former  condi- 
tion. The  honors,  and  the  adoration,  too,  which  were  paid  to 
Ono-keo-co,  who  was  indeed  worshipped  on  account  of  her  great 
beauty,  would  have  intoxicated  one  much  more  advanced  in  years  ; 
for,  disguise  it  as  we  may,  flattery  is  a  sweet  morsel  to  all,  parti- 
cularly when  it  comes  in  the  shape  of  truth,  and  it  is  certainly 
the  nearest  road  to  woman's  heart.  Ono-keo-co  became,  every 
day,  more  and  more,  resigned  to  her  fate;  and,  as  her  smiles 
returned,  like  sunshine  to  her  heart,  she  became  more  and  more 
irresistibly  lovely.  Her  beauty  began  to  attract  the  young  warriors 
of  other  tribes,  who  sought  to  win  her  smiles,  but  she  remained 
18 


138  BTRITINGS  OP  THE  MILFORD  BARD. 

insensible  to  the  protestations  of  all,  even  to  those  of  Neomock 
and  Photobrand,  though  the  latter  fancied  that  he  appeared  more 
graceful  in  her  sight  than  any  other. 

Tamenend,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  watched  the  movements 
of  them  both,  and  observed  an  evident  coldness  in  the  manner  of 
Neomock  towards  his  brother.  The  old  chief,  entirely  ignorant 
of  what  was  going  on,  advised  his  eldest  son,  who  at  his  death 
would  become  the  chief  of  the  tribe,  to  address  Ono-keo-co,  win 
her  affections,  marry  her,  and  raise  up  a  brave  race.  He  little 
knew,  nor  did  Photobrand  tell  him,  that  he  would  at  that  moment 
have  given  his  eyes  for  her,  could  he  have  had  the  power  to  behold 
her  beauty,  after  he  gave  them. 

Not  long  after  the  events  I  have  narrated,  Photobrand  was 
standing  on  a  towering  rock  on  the  Brandywine,  idly  gazing  on 
the  waters  that  rolled  beneath  him  when  Neomock  wandered  to 
the  same  spot. 

"Well  met,  my  gentle  brother,"  said  Photobrand  gaily,  "are 
you  licking  from  your  lips  the  honey  stolen  from  the  luscious, 
lovely  lips  of  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co?" 

"I  do  not  stoop  to  so  mean  an  act  as  to  steal  even  a  kiss," 
returned  Neomock,  with  a  scowling  look. 

"Why,  brother,  you  seem  to  be  in  an  ill  humor.  What  has 
crossed  you?  Has  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co  repulsed  yonr  love? 
Come,  confide  your  sorrows  to  this  bosom  that " 

"That  has  wronged  me,"  exclaimed  Neomock. 

"Wronged  you,  brother!     How  have  I  wronged  you?" 

"You  have  basely  wronged  me,  by  meanly  stealing  the  affections 
of  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co,  whom  my  soul  idolizes.  Can  you 
deny  it?" 

"I  deny  having  wronged  you.  I  have,  it  is  true,  won  the  smiles 
of  the  fair  creature;  but  if  she  prefers  me,  there  is  surely  no  wrong 
in  that,  brother." 

"Photobrand,  look  me  in  the  face,  and  say  that  you  never 
spoken  evil  of  me  to  her." 

"I  do  say  so  boldly,  and  any  other  man  than  my  brother  who 
dares  to  say  so,  shall  feel  this  knife  rankle  in  his  heart,"  and  he 
held  the  knife  glittering  in  the  gaze  of  Neomock. 

"Beware!"  exclaimed  Neomock,  "how  you  tamper  with  the 
Great  Bear,  or  he  will  squeeze  your  life  out.  Win  her  fairly, 
Photobrand,  and  take  her." 

"I  scorn  the  deed  of  winning  her  in  any  other  way,  and  if  by 
honorable  means  you  can  transplant  me,  why,  in  the  name  of  the 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  139 

mighty  Mannitto,  take  her,  and  not  a  sigh  of  mine  shall  ever  dis- 
turb your  repose." 

"I'll  keep  both  an  eye  and  ear  upon  you,  Photobrand,  and 
mark  me,  if  I  catch  you  in  any  more  mean  tricks,  revenge  deep 
and  dreadful  shall  be  mine." 

"Brother  Neomock,  I  disregard  your  threats — I  fear  you  not. 
Your  anger  I  pity,  your  vengeance  I  defy,  your  threats  I  despise. 
Jealousy  has  taken  possession  of  your  heart,  and  robbed  it  of  all 
its  kindness.  You  were  not  always  thus." 

"  No,  not  when  I  had  a  brother,  a  generous  brother,  who  was 
brave  in  war,  and  honorable  in  peace;  but  now,  when  that  brother, 
lost  to  all  honor,  becomes  a  mean  robber " 

"Forbear!  Neomock,"  exclaimed  Photobrand,  seizing  his  bro- 
ther by  the  neck,  "or,  by  the  great  Mannitto,  my  hands  shall  reek 
with  a  brother's  blood." 

"Off!  vile  reptile,"  cried  Neomock,  as  in  rage  he  seized  his 
slenderer  brother  by  the  arm,  and  dashed  him  headlong  down  the 
rock  into  the  water,  yelling  the  word,  "Off!"  till  the  forest  echoed 
it  back  far  and  near. 

Photobrand  arose,  bleeding  profusely,  and  started  up  the  hill 
in  rage,  to  slay  his  brother;  but  the  memory  of  the  gentle  precepts, 
which  had  been  instilled  into  his  mind  by  the  noble-hearted  Tam- 
enend.  came  upon  his  recollection,  and  he  burst  into  tears,  and 
wept  like  a  child.  Tamenend  came  to  the  spot  at  the  moment, 
and  seeing  the  blood  streaming  from  his  face,  enquired  the  cause. 
On  hearing  that  they  had  quarrelled,  though  they  both  endeavored 
to  hide  from  him  the  cause,  he  easily  guessed  it,  and  implored 
them  to  be  friends,  telling  them  that  the  same  blood  ran  in  their 
veins,  that  they  had  both  fed  and  been  nursed  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  same  mother,  and  that  the  Great  Spirit,  frowning  upon  the 
quarrels  of  brothers,  would  never  prosper  them,  or  give  them  the 
honors  of  victory  on  the  field  of  battle.  So  powerful  was  his 
appeal,  and  so  fondly  and  kindly  did  he  press  that  they  should  be 
friends,  representing  to  them  that  the  feuds  of  brothers  are  the 
most  bitter  and  bloody  of  all  feuds,  that  Photobrand  offered  his 
hand,  which  Neomock  took,  though  it  was  evident  there  was  still 
a  bitterness  in  his  heart. 

The  bleeding  from  the  nose  of  Photobrand  was  stopped,  and 
they  all  returned  to  the  wigwam,  without  the  knowledge  of  their 
difficulty  having  reached  the  ears  of  the  chief.  Time  passed  on, 
and  both  secretly  endeavored  to  win  the  heart  of  the  charming 
Ono-keo-co,  but  it  soon  became  apparent,  by  her  actions,  that 


• 


140  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFOKD    BARD. 

Photobrand  was  the  lord  of  her  affections,  while  the  society  of 
Neomock  became  more  and  more  disagreeable  to  her,  which,  for 
the  sake  of  peace,  she  in  vain  endeavored  to  conceal.  Neomock 
perceived  that  his  brother  was  triumphing  over  him;  his  soul 
brooded  in  darkness  on  revenge;  and  in  the  frequent  broils  that 
occurred,  the  real  cause  of  them  was  made  known  to  Kankinaw, 
the  chief,  by  Tamenend,  in  the  hope  of  his  generous  soul  that  the 
chief  might  have  power  to  end  them. 

The  council  fire  was  lighted,  and  all  the  warriors  and  women 
were  assembled  in  solemn  council,  for  the  women  among  the 
Indians  had  a  voice  in  matters  of  State,  and  who  indeed  have  a 
greater  interest,  not  to  speak  of  sound  judgment,  in  matters  that 
concern  the  public  welfare,  than  women?  Happy  is  that  husband, 
who  takes  counsel  of  his  wife  in  things  that  greatly  concern  him ! 

As  the  Canai  Indians,  on  the  Potomac,  had  killed  one  of  the 
Delawares,  a  year  before,  and  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed 
had  thrown  them  off  their  guard,  it  was  agreed  that  a  war  should 
be  commenced  against  them,  which  would  accomplish  two  objects, 
that  of  doing  away  the  feuds  between  the  brothers,  and  of  reveng- 
ing an  injury. 

Accordingly,  the  great  war-kettle  was  put  on  the  fire:  the  war- 
song  commenced,  with  dances ;  the  hatchet  was  sent  to  the  villages 
and  allies;  and  the  most  hideous  bowlings  rung  incessantly,  day 
and  night,  through  the  forests.  The  women  added  their  cries  to 
those  of  the  men,  in  loud,  wild  lamentations  for  those  who  had 
formerly  been  slain  in  battle,  and  demanding  that  their  places 
should  be  supplied  by  the  captives  taken  from  the  enemy. 

The  whole  tribe  was  thus  raised  to  the  greatest  fury,  and  all 
longed  to  imbrue  their  hands  in  blood.  The  war-captain  prepared 
the  feast  of  dog's  flesh,  and  as  every  one  advanced  to  partake,  he 
received  a  billet,  which  was  an  agreement  that  they  would  be 
faithful  to  one  another,  and  obedient  to  their  commander. — None 
were  forced  to  enter  the  ranks  of  war,  but  when  they  accepted 
this  billet  they  were  considered  enlisted,  and  to  flinch  was  death. 

All  those  who  have  enlisted  thus  for  the  war,  had  their  faces 
blackened  with  charcoal,  over  which  were  painted  stripes  or  streaks 
of  vermillion.  Their  hair  was  dressed  in  the  most  haggard  and 
wild  manner,  into  which  were  stuck  feathers  of  various  kinds. 
Their  appearance  altogether  was  exceedingly  horrible  and  frightful. 

Before  they  set  out  on  the  march  the  chief  began  the  war-song, 
which  continued  some  time,  when  he  raised  his  voice  to  the 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  141 

highest  pitch,  and  then  suddenly  began  an  address,  in  a  very 
solemn  manner,  to  the  Great  Spirit  Mannitto. 

"I  implore  thee  to  crown  our  undertaking  with  triumph.  I 
invoke  thee  to  take  care  of  me  and  my  tribe.  I  invoke  all  good 
and  evil  spirits,  in  the  skies,  on  the  earth,  and  under  the  earth,  to 
hurl  destruction  on  our  enemies,  and  to  return  me  and  my  brave 
warriors  safely  home." 

In  this  prayer  all  the  warriors  joined  him. — A  tremendous  shout 
rent  the  air,  when  he  had  concluded,  and  acclamations  rung  loud 
and  long  along  the  rocky  battlements  of  the  Brandywine.  The 
war-song  and  war-dance  were  again  commenced  by  the  chief,  and 
the  painted  warriors,  as  they  ran  round  him,  rent  the  skies  with 
their  shouts,  so  long  as  he  continued  to  dance. 

The  day  of  their  departure  dawned.  They  took  their  leave  of 
their  friends  and  changed  their  clothes,  and  all  their  movables,  in 
token  of  friendship.  The  women  and  female  relatives  went  out 
some  distance,  and  awaited  their  approach.  The  chief,  Kankinaw, 
then  gave  the  word,  and  the  gay  warriors,  dressed  in  their  most 
gaudy  garb  and  most  showy  ornaments,  marched  out,  one  after 
another,  in  regular  order,  for  they  never  moved  in  rank,  as  our 
soldiers  do.  During  this  march  the  chief  walked  slowly  before 
them,  singing  the  death-song  in  the  most  mournful  tones,  while 
all  the  warriors  observed  the  most  profound  and  solemn  silence. 
As  soon  as  they  approached  the  spot  where  the  women  had 
halted,  they  commenced  delivering  them  their  finery,  and  putting 
on  their  most  common  clothes.  This  being  done,  a  simultaneous 
burst  of  the  war-whoop  startled  the  beasts  of  the  forest  from 
their  lair,  and  they  went  off  at  a  quick  pace,  one  after  another, 
singing  the  war-song. 

To  Ono-keo-co  this  scene  was  not  only  new  but  pleasing, 
because  it  was  picturesque.  She  had  now  been  so  long  estranged 
from  her  parents,  and  having  been  so  young  when  rudely  torn 
from  them,  the  recollection  of  their  tenderness  was  fading  from 
her  mind;  showing  the  influence  a  few  years  have  over  youthful 
memory.  Then  she  had  been  so  kindly  received  in  her  new  home 
by  Kankinaw  and  the  good  Tamenend ;  she  had  been  so  much 
worshipped  by  the  tribe,  and  so  adored  by  Photobrand  and  his 
brother;  in  short,  her  eyes  having  witnessed  nothing  but  feasting 
and  merriment  on  her  account,  it  was  not  strange  that  she  should 
learn  to  love  them.  Some  of  the  young  squaws  were  jealous  of 
her  powerful  beauty,  but  they  feared  openly  to  offer  her  any  insult 
or  injury,  as  they  well  knew  that  not  only  the  chief  and  the  ami- 


142 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


able  Tamenend,  whose  moral  influence  was  great,  would  resent  it, 
but  that  Photobrand  would  punish  them  severely. 

Ono-keo-co,  though  for  a  length  of  time  she  did  not  deign  to 
listen  to  the  protestations  of  Photobrand,  was  at  last  won  by  his 
devoted  and  persevering  efforts;  and  indeed  he  was,  though  im- 
petuous and  impatient  of  restraint,  a  noble  youth,  who  had  so  distin- 
guished himself  in  war,  that  a  chief  of  another  tribe,  whose  son  he 
had  killed  in  battle,  had  offered  as  many  bear  and  raccoon  skins  as 
twenty  hunters  could  carry,  to  any  bandit  who  would  bring  him  to 
him  dead  or  alive,  the  latter  being  preferred,  as  he  wished  to  feast 
his  eyes  with  his  tortures.  A  bandit,  among  the  Indians,  was  not 
strictly  a  robber;  but  one  who  was  employed  to  capture,  by  stealth 
and  stratagem,  a  person  of  one  tribe,  who  had  killed  one,  or  done 
some  egregrious  wrong  to,  and  was  under  the  ban  of  another  tribe. 

When  Kankinaw  and  his  warriors  arrived  in  the  country  of  the 
Canai,  all  but  the  old  men,  women  and  children,  were  gone  on  a 
hunting  and  trapping  expedition,  and  at  the  hour  of  midday  they 
rushed  on  the  village,  but  the  cries  of  the  helpless  falling  upon 
the  ears  of  Tamenend,  who  was  the  war-captain,  he  gave  order 
that  not  a  hair  of  their  heads  should  be  touched.  This  was  a 
mercy  not  extended  by  other  tribes,  and  it  was  a  touching  scene 
to  witness  the  gratitude  of  the  old  men  and  women.  Tamenend 
shed  tears,  while  he  harangued  the  warriors  on  the  godlike  nature 
of  mercy. 

After  leaving  the  village,  they  discovered  their  enemies  on  their 
return,  and  instantly  every  warrior  threw  himself  flat  on  his  face 
among  the  withered  leaves,  the  color  of  which  their  bodies  were 
painted  exactly  to  resemble.  Unperceived  by  the  Canai  warriors 
and  hunters,  they  suffered  a  part  of  them  to  pass  unmolested,  then 
rising  a  little,  they  took  deliberate  aim;  let  fly  a  tempest  of  toma- 
hawks and  arrows,  and  yelling  the  awful  war-cry,  which  was 
answered  by  the  enemy,  every  one  flew  behind  a  tree.  In  this 
manner  the  contest  continued  for  some  time,  when  Photobrand, 
rushing  from  his  covert,  called  on  the  warriors  to  follow  him,  which 
they  did,  and  tomahawks  flew  fast,  while  the  reeking  scalps  were 
torn  from  the  heads  of  one  another.  Hand  to  hand  they  fought, 
while  the  trees  were  spattered  with  blood  and  brains  that  gushed 
when  the  hatchet  sunk  deep  into  the  skull. 

At  length  the  Delawares  were  triumphant,  and,  mad  with  fury, 
they  bit  the  flesh,  tore  the  scalps  from  the  heads,  and  wallowed  in 
the  blood,  of  the  defeated  Canai.  From  the  village  they  took 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARU.  143 

such  prisoners  as  pleased  them,  and  singing  a  song  of  triumph, 
they  set  out  on  their  return  to  the  Brandywine. 

When  the  conquerors  arrived  at  the  spot  now  occupied  by  the 
beautiful  farm-house  of  Mr.  Boyce,  not  far  from  the  banks  of  the 
Brandywine,  vast  numbers  of  the  tribe  were  assembled  and  seated 
on  the  hill,  where  the  house  now  stands,  and  down  the  beautiful 
slope  to  the  valley  below. 

The  war-captain,  Tamenend,  immediately  waited  on  the  head 
men,  and,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  related  every  circumstance  which 
had  transpired  during  the  expedition,  giving  a  minute  detail  of 
their  own  loss,  and  that  of  the  enemy.  This  being  done,  the 
public  orator,  Oonatonga,  took  his  station  on  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
and.  in  a  loud  voice,  proclaimed  the  whole  to  the  people  around 
and  below. 

The  voice  of  mourning  then  was  heard  throughout  the  vast 
assemblage;  every  one  who  had  lost  a  friend  in  the  battle,  crying 
out  in  the  most  piteous  tones  of  lamentation,  and  demanding  a 
captive  to  supply  the  place  of  the  deceased.  Suddenly  Oonatonga 
gave  the  signal,  and  in  an  instant  all  tears  were  wiped  from  the 
eyes  of  the  mourners,  and  the  sound  of  rejoicing  was  heard,  while 
many  gave  way  to  the  phrenzy  of  joy,  and  the  most  extravagant 
expressions  of  triumph  for  the  victory. 

The  prisoners,  in  suspense,  were  trembling  for  their  future  fate. 
It  was  a  custom  to  present  a  slave,  or  captive,  to  every  wigwam 
that  had  lost  a  friend  in  battle;  those  to  have  the  best  whose  loss 
had  been  the  greatest.  Accordingly,  a  captive  was  taken  to  the 
wigwam  of  every  one  who  had  lost  a  friend,  and  with  him  or  her 
was  given  a  belt  of  wampum.  All  the  captives  were  received  into 
the  respective  wigwams,  to  supply  the  place  of,  and  be  treated  as, 
the  father,  son  or  brother,  who  had  been  slain,  except  two,  who 
threw  away  the  belts  of  wampum  with  indignation,  by  which  it 
was  understood  that  these  two  captives  were  doomed  to  die  by 
torture.  One  was  a  full-blooded  Canai  warrior,  and  the  other, 
though  painted,  was  supposed  to  be  a  half-blood,  who  was  slender, 
and  wasted  away  by  grief  or  disease.  The  former  was  called 
Obando,  and  the  latter  Omai. 

The  death-song  was  now  sung,  and  preparations  made  for  the 
execution  of  the  two  captives  who  were  to  die  by  slow  torture. 
The  victims  knew  not  their  fate  until  they  beheld  the  scaffold  and 
the  stake,  to  which  they  were  to  be  tied.  Obando  betrayed  no 
sign  of  fear  or  grief,  but  Omai  threw  himself  at  the  feet  of  Kan- 
kinaw,  the  chief,  and  in  the  most  piteous  tones,  implored  him  to 


144  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

spare  his  life,  as  he  had  never  wronged  the  tribe;  but  Kankinaw 
informed  him  that  it  was  the  will  of  his  owner,  and  according  to 
custom,  and  he  must  die;  exhorting  him  to  die  bravely,  to  die  as 
became  a  warrior,  and  not  to  beg  for  life  like  a  woman. 

Weeping  and  lamenting  his  fate,  Omai  was  placed  near  the 
scaffold  that  he  might  witness  the  death  agonies  of  Obando,  who, 
after  having  composedly  smoked  the  calumet,  ascended,  with  a 
firm  step  the  scaffold,  and  without  resistance,  suffered  himself  to 
be  tied  to  the  stake,  assuring  the  assembled  multitude  that  he 
could  bear  any  torture  they  could  inflict,  and  with  disdain  daring 
them  to  the  trial. 

The  torture  commenced,  and  while  the  executioners  were 
piercing  him  with  sharp  instruments,  he  gave  his  soul  to  song, 
and  broke  forth  in  a  strain,  of  which  the  following  words  will 
convey  to  the  reader's  mind  the  meaning. 

'  Pierce  on,  ye  tormentors,  I  spurn  ye  in  pain, 

Ye  shall  never,  no  never,  shall  hear  me  complain  ; 
Ye  may  tear,  ye  may  torture ;  no  pity  I  crave, 
For  ye  never  can  conquer  Obando  the  brave. 

Ye  may  cut,  ye  may  carve ;  ye  can't  conquer  my  soul, 
The  will  of  Obando  ye  cannot  control  ; 
With  faggots  of  flame  ye  may  burn  to  the  brain, 
But  the  son  of  Secomo  shall  never  complain. 

1  spurn  you,  tormentors,  I  scorn  all  your  art, 

Ye  hell-hounds,  that  thirst  for  the  blood  of  my  heart ; 

Burn  on,  while  I  curse  ye — no  pity  I  crave, 

For  ye  never  can  conquer  Obando  the  brave. 

While  the  heroic  captive  was  undergoing  the  excruciating  tor- 
tures inflicted,  he  continued  to  sing,  or  laugh,  in  scorn  at  the 
impotent  attempts  of  his  enemies  to  subdue  his  spirit,  and  taunted 
them  with  ignorance  of  the  modes  of  most  severe  torture.  While 
he  filled  and  smoked  the  pipe  with  the  greatest  apparent  composure, 
he  pointed  out  to  them  the  parts  of  the  body  most  sensitive,  and 
described  the  means  of  causing  the  most  exquisite  torture.  His 
body  was  now  covered  with  blood,  that  trickled  in  a  thousand 
streams  from  the  punctures  made  by  sharp  instruments.  Splinters, 
of  seasoned  oak,  were  pushed  under  his  nails  and  set  on  fire, 
while  the  assembly  looked  on  with  delight,  to  see  whether  the 
victim  writhed  in  his  agony. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  145 

All  enjoyed  ihe  scene  but  the  delicate  Omai,  who  fainted  at 
seeing  the  small  faggots,  stuck  in  the  flesh  of  Obando,  burn 
blisters,  and  at  the  thought  that  he  was  doomed  to  undergo  similar 
tortures. 

Though  Ono-keo-co  had  now  been  several  years  among  the 
Indians,  and  had  become  familiar  with  many  of  their  cruel  cus- 
toms, for  it  does  not  require  the  youthful  mind  long  to  become  so, 
her  heart  sickened  at  the  scene  before  her,  and  she  shuddered  at 
the  thought  that  she  was  to  witness  the  agonies  of  another.  She 
gazed  upon  the  sad  countenance  of  Omai,  and  pity  was  awakened 
in  her  bosom.  She  knew  the  power  she  had  over  the  chief,  as 
well  as  over  Tamenend  and  Photobrand,  but  she  started  at  the 
idea  of  opposing  the  will  of  the  whole  tribe,  well  knowing  that 
Neomock  would  oppose  any  thing  which  she  might  influence 
Photobrand  to  advocate,  for  the  demon  of  jealousy  and  revenge 
was  roused  in  his  heart. 

The  torture  continued  until  Obando  became  blind  and  delirious, 
when  he  was  untied  and  suffered  to  stagger  about  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  spectators.  Tired  at  length  with  the  exhibition  of 
human  agony,  one  of  the  warriors,  in  mercy,  put  an  end  to  his 
sufferings,  burying  his  tomahawk  in  his  brain. 

The  heart  of  Ono-keo-co  melted  in  pity  for  Omai,  for  he  gazed 
upon  her  with  an  appealing  eye,  and  she  resolved  to  save  him  if 
possible.  Influenced  by  Photobrand,  she  was  that  day  dressed  in 
her  royal  robe;  her  face  painted,  to  please  his  taste;  and  her 
auburn  hair,  which  had  been  colored  jet  black  by  galls,  adorned 
with  the  most  gay  and  gaudy  feathers.  Her  step  was  that  of  a 
princess. 

After  pleading  in  vain  for  the  life  of  Omai,  she  solicited  that 
the  execution  of  the  captive  might  be  postponed.  In  this,  through 
the  influence  of  Photobrand  and  Tamenend,  she  succeeded, 
though  violently  opposed  by  Neomock,  who  watched  with  the 
eyes  of  Argus,  the  growing  tenderness  between  his  brother  and 
the  object  of  his  soul's  adoration. 

Omai  was  confined  in  a  wigwam,  still  under  the  doom  of  torture, 
which  had  only  been  delayed  to  gratify  Ono-keo-co.  The  indi- 
vidual, to  whom  Omai  had  been  presented  as  a  slave,  and  who 
had  thrown  away  the  belt  of  wampum,  thereby  dooming  him  to 
death,  was  the  only  person  who  had  a  right  to  save  him,  though 
some  times  the  chief  took  the  authority;  and  this  person  was 
prejudiced  by  Neomock,  and  induced  to  refuse  granting  the  life 
of  the  victim. 
19 


146  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

The  torture  of  Obando  took  place  at  the  time  of  the  full  moon, 
and  the  time  fixed  for  the  execution  of  Omai,  was  the  change  of 
the  same  moon.  Every  day  Neomock  loved  Ono-keo-co  more, 
until  his  passion  amounted  almost  to  madness,  though  that  passion 
did  not  grow  upon  what  it  fed,  for  every  day  he  discovered  that 
the  mutual  affection  of  Ono-keo-co  and  Photobrand  became 
stronger. 

Omai  supposed  Ono-keo-co  to  be  an  Indian  princess,  from  her 
always  appearing  before  him  painted  in  the  manner  of  the  squaws, 
and  dressed  in  the  Indian  costume.  She  visited  the  captive,  in 
company  with  Photobrand,  every  day,  endeavoring  to  sooth  his 
troubled  spirit,  for  there  was  something  in  the  sound  of  Omai's 
voice,  which  was  irresistibly  touching  to  the  soul  of  Ono-keo-co. 
There  was  a  melancholy  tenderness,  a  mournful  sweetness,  that 
came  upon  her  ear  like  the  echo  of  long  buried  bliss,  revealing  to 
her  mind  a  vague  recollection  of  something,  she  knew  not  what, 
as  is  the  case  with  all  persons  at  particular  times.  And  when 
they  conversed,  and  Omai  told  her,  in  tears,  that  he  had  had  a 
daughter  once,  the  idol  of  his  soul,  but  who  was,  alas!  torn  from 
his  arms  and  carried  into  captivity,  Ono-keo-co  could  not  refrain 
from  weeping  at  the  recollection  of  her  own  parents. 

Neomock,  who  had  learned  to  hate  his  brother  with  bitterness, 
on  account  of  his  possessing  the  love  of  Ono-keo-co,  and  who 
had  studied  in  the  solitude  of  the  woods,  the  best  means  of  tri- 
umphing over  Photobrand,  and  of  forcing  her  to  his  ownvarms, 
suddenly  approached  the  happy  pair,  one  day,  and  extended  his 
hand  in  friendship,  at  the  same  time  presenting  the  calumet  of 
peace  to  Photobrand.  Astonished  at  this,  Photobrand  was  de- 
lighted, and  listened  with  pleasure  while  Neomock  expatiated  on 
the  beauties  of  brotherly  love,  and  invited  him  and  his  betrothed, 
Ono-keo-co,  to  go  with  him,  the  next  day,  on  an  excursion  of 
pleasure  in  his  beautiful  bark  canoe.  Photobrand,  in  frankness, 
informed  his  brother,  that  he  had  honorably  won  the  heart  of  the 
beautiful  Ono-keo-co,  and  that  his  marriage  would  ere  long  be 
celebrated  with  great  pomp.  Though,  at  this  intelligence,  a  cloud 
passed  over  the  features  of  Neomock,  he  expressed  pleasure,  and 
wished  that  their  lives  might  be  long  and  happy,  blessed  with  a 
race  of  brave  warriors. 

Suspecting  no  treachery,  Photobrand  prepared  to  go,  in  com- 
pany with  his  beloved,  on  the  intended  excursion.  No  sleep,  that 
night,  blessed  the  eyes  of  Neomock;  and  he  vowed,  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  soul,  that  Ono-keo-co,  should  never  be  the  bride  of 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  147 

his  brother;  that  she  should  never  wed  any  but  himself.  His 
passions  were  dark  and  stormy,  and  all  night  he  writhed  in  the 
agonies  of  thought,  like  a  victim  at  the  stake. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  rose  bright  and  beautiful,  and  the 
three  entered  the  bark  canoe,  on  the  bank  of  the  Brandywine; 
while  their  friends,  in  great  numbers,  had  departed  on  a  short 
hunting  expedition.  With  a  forced  gaiety,  Neomock  entertained 
them  with  a  long  harangue,  until  the  canoe  had  passed  down, 
below  where  the  Brandywine  bridge  now  stands,  and  finding  they 
were  in  deep  water,  he  then  addressed  Photobrand  in  the  following 
language,  while  his  dark  eyes  flashed  with  the  fires  of  hell. 

"Brother,  I  now  speak  to  you.  I  wish  you  to  listen.  You 
knew  I  loved  Ono-keo-co  first.  Why  did  you  meanly  steal  her 
from  me,  like  a  wolf?" 

Photobrand,  at  the  last  words,  sprung  upon  his  feet. 

"Hear,  me  brother,"  continued  Neomock.  "It  is  ill  manners 
to  interrupt  me.  You  must  give  her  up  to  me,  or  die.  You  cannot 
swim.  I  give  you  a  short  time  to  consider." 

Photobrand  stood  amazed,  unable  to  speak,  while  Ono-keo-co 
clung  to  him  with  a  convulsive  grasp.  Neither  of  them  could 
swim,  Photobrand  being  seized  with  cramp  whenever  he  entered 
the  water.  Neomock,  too,  was  by  far  the  more  powerful  man,  as 
Photobrand  had  been  satisfied  of,  when  his  brother  threw  him 
down  the  rock.  There  was  but  one  paddle  in  the  canoe,  Neo- 
mock having  carefully  removed  every  thing  that  might  be  used  as 
a  weapon. 

"  Have  you  consented,  brother,  to  relinquish  the  beloved  of  my 
heart?"  enquired  Neomock,  with  the  scowl  of  a  demon.  As  he 
spoke,  he  stooped,  and  drew  forth,  from  the  bottom  of  the  canoe, 
a  small  plug,  that  let  in  the  water  in  a  stream  not  larger  than  a 
gimlet. 

"  Behold,  brother,  you  have  but  a  short  time  to  make  up  your 
rnind.  Consent  that  she  shall  be  mine,  or  perish." 

The  canoe  was  now  approaching  the  Delaware  river,  and  Ono- 
keo-co,  seeing  that  the  water  must  soon  sink  the  canoe,  screamed 
with  affright,  but  no  one  heard  her  cry.  Neomock  stood  gazing 
upon  Photobrand  with  demoniac  triumph,  while  the  latter  returned 
the  glance  with  proud  defiance;  but  when  he  saw  the  water  rising 
in  the  canoe,  and  thought  that  he  must  perish  in  the  waves  with 
Ono-keo-co,  if  his  brother's  demand  was  not  granted,  his  forti- 
tude faltered;  he  shuddered;  and  looked  at  Ono-keo-co  to  read 
her  determination  in  her  countenance.  For  the  sake  of  her  life, 


148  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

he  begged  her  to  consent  to  be  the  wife  of  Neomock;  while,  for 
himself,  he  was  resolved  to  perish,  rather  than  accede  to  the 
demand  of  his  brother.  Death,  to  him,  was  preferable  to  the  loss 
of  Ono-keo-co,  yet  rather  than  that  she  should  perish,  he  was 
willing  she  should  yield. 

"Quick!"  exclaimed  Neomock,  "the  canoe  will  soon  sink. 
Will  you  give  her  to  me,  to  save  your  life,  brother?" 

"  No,"  cried  Photobrand,  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 

To  the  astonishment  of  Photobrand,  when  Neomock  put  the 
question  to  Ono-keo-co,  whether  to  save  her  life  she  would  forsake 
Photobrand  and  become  his  wife,  she  exclaimed,  with  the  same 
emphatic  firmness, 

"  No,  I  will  perish  first.  Do  your  worst,  ungrateful  man ;  we 
will  die  in  each  other's  arms.  Never  will  I  be  the  wife  of  him  I 
cannot  love,  or  who  thus  meanly  takes  the  advantage  of  his 
brother." 

Neomock  gritted  his  teeth  in  rage,  at  thus  finding  his  plan  foiled. 
The  canoe  was  now  fast  filling  With  water,  and  as  Photobrand 
gazed  upon  the  tearful  eyes  of  Ono-keo-co,  who  stood  wringing 
her  hands  in  despair,  his  soul  was  roused  to  madness,  and,  for- 
getting the  gentle  precepts  of  the  sage  Tamenend,  he  rushed 
suddenly  and  furiously  upon  h1i  brother,  and  ere  he  had  time  to 
prepare  himself  for  defence,  hurled  him  into  the  water.  But  as 
Neomock  was  dashed  into  the  waves  on  the  one  side,  Ono-keo-co 
was  thrown  overboard  on  the  other.  Her  dress  buoyed  her  up  for 
a  while,  but  what  could  Photobrand  do?  He  could  not  swim; 
the  only  paddle  on  board  of  the  canoe  was  in  the  hands  of  Neo- 
mock, when  thrown  overboard,  and  the  tide  was  bearing  the  canoe 
away  from  the  drowning  object  of  his  idolatry.  With  imploring 
shrieks  for  help,  he  saw  her  throwing  her  arms  in  the  air,  and  he 
was  tempted  to  leap  into  the  water  and  perish  with  her.  As  her 
clothes  became  saturated  with  water,  she  began  to  sink.  Know- 
ing not  what  to  do,  the  bewildered  Photobrand  ran  from  one  end 
of  the  canoe  to  the  other,  while  the  distance  between  him  and  the 
being  he  adored,  increased.  Luckily,  Neomock,  incommoded  by 
the  paddle,  had  relinquished  it,  and  it  was  passing  down  the  tide. 
But,  alas!  the  canoe  was  passing  equally  as  fast;  but,  while  de- 
spairing at  blasted  hope,  the  canoe  drifted  against  a  pole,  which 
some  of  the  Indians  had  fastened  in  the  bed  of  the  river  and  hope 
revived.  Fearful  that  Ono-keo-co  would  drown  ere  he  could  fly 
to  her  assistance,  he  exerted  his  strength  to  the  utmost,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  pulling  up  the  pole.  As  he  turned  his  eye  to  see 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  149 

whether  she  had  sunk,  he  beheld  Neomock  swimming  towards 
her,  to  force  from  her  the  pledge  that  she  would  be  his  wife,  or 
leave  her  to  her  fate. 

Madness  now  seized  the  soul  of  Photobrand,  and,  with  the  en- 
ergy  which  desperation  gives,  he  pushed  towards  the  spot.  So 
soon  as  Neomock  discovered  the  approach  of  his  brother,  he 
turned  and  struck  lustily  for  the  other  shore,  convinced  that  he 
was  not  now  a  match  for  Photobrand.  Ono-keo-co  was  sinking 
the  second  time,  when  her  betrothed  husband  seized  her  by  her 
long  hair,  and  rescued  her  from  a  watery  grave.  He  lifted  her 
insensible  form  into  the  canoe,  and  while  he  gazed  into  her  pale 
face,  from  which  the  paint  had  been  washed,  the  far  off  forests 
rung  with  his  agonizing*cry  of  despair. 

As  the  boat  touched  the  shore,  she  sunk.  Life  was  not  quite 
extinct  in  the  heart  of  Ono-keo-eo,  and  in  the  course  of  an  hour, 
she  revived.  The  canoe  was  then  bailed;  the  hole  in  the  bottom 
stopped;  and  thef  returned  up  the  Brandy  wine,  while  Neomock 
had  wandered  off  into  the  impenetrable  thickets,  that  then  covered 
the  land  which  is  now  in  meadow.  He  did  not  make  his  appear- 
ance for  some  days,  well  knowing  that  the  anger  of  the  chief 
would  soon  wear  away. 

When  he  did  return,  it  was  j*  smiles,  pretending  that  what  had 
happened  was  intended  as  a  mere  freak,  to  fright  his  brother  and 
his  plighted  bride.  \^hen  Ono-keo-co  arrived,  the  hunters  had 
not  returned;  and  she.  went  to  the  wigwam  in  which  the  captive 
was  confined.  No  sooner  did  she  enter,  than  the  captive  gazed 
for  a  moment  on  her  face,  from  which  the  paint  had  been  washed, 
and  then  exclaimed,  in  the  wild  delirium  of  her  joy, 

"  Oh!  God,  it  must  be^it  is  my  child!  my  Lelia!" 

Omai,  though  weak  from  grief,  sprang  forward  to  embrace  her, 
but  finding  that  Ono-keo-co  was  startled,  she  said, 

"Do  you  not  know — Oh!  Lelia,  my  beloved  and  lost,  do  you 
not  know  your  own  dear  mother,  in  disguise  ?" 

Ono-keo-co  awoke,  as  from  a  dream.  She  could  not  be  mis- 
taken in  that  voice.  It  had  awakened  her  sympathy  before,  and 
now,  being  assured  it  was  her  long-lost  mother  who  stood  before 
her,  she  rushed  in  a  transport  of  joy  to  her  arms,  and  their  tears 
were  mingled.  But  her  vision  of  bliss  was  of  short  duration,  for 
the  horrid  consciousness  came  upon  her,  that  that  mother  was 
doomed  to  die  by  torture. 

They  both  wept,  while  Mrs.  Brabant  related  the  hardships  she 
had  endured  in  pursuit  of  her  husband.  That  she  had  put  on 


150  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

male  attire,  to  escape  insult,  and  had  been  taken  by  the  Canai 
Indians,  from  whom  she  had  never  found  an  opportunity  to  escape. 
Her  being  taken  by  the  Delawares  and  doomed  to  death,  was 
already  known  to  her  daughter.  Her  husband  she  had  never 
found. 

Ono-keo-co  now  determined  to  save  her,  or  perish  with  her. 
She  communicated  the  secret  to  Photobrand,  who  readily  promised 
to  aid  her,  in  freeing  her  mother  from  her  impending  fate.  When 
the  hunters  returned,  the  chief  was  informed  of  the  fact;  he  as- 
sembled a  council,  and  Oonatonga,  the  orator,  proclaimed  it  to 
the  assembled  multitude.  A  sympathy  was  at  first  felt,  but  the 
wily  Neomock  whispered  it  about,  that  it  was  a  trick  of  Ono-keo- 
co,  aided  by  Photobrand,  to  save  the  life  of  the  victim ;  and  soon 
public  opinion  was  turned,  and  the  cry  was  that  the  victim  should 
die.  •» 

In  distraction  and  despair,  Ono-keo-«o  communicated  the  un- 
happy tidings  to  her  mother,  that  she  had  made  the  appeal  in  vain, 
and  that  death  was  her  inevitable  doom,  unless  some  plan  of 
escape  could  be  devised.  Neomock,  like  a  malicious  fiend,  was 
ever  watching,  fearful  that  he  would  be  debarred  the  pleasure  of 
giving  pain  to  her,  who  had  so  scornfully  refused  to  become  his 
wife. 

Photobrand,  On  the  other  hand,  resolved  to  assisrt)no-keo-co 
in  freeing  her  mother  from  the  doom  that  awaited  hef,  and  as  the 
day  of  torture  was  near  at  hand,  it  was  necessary  that  they  should 
put  into  execution  the  plan  of  her  escape  as  soon  as  possible, 
lest  the  opportunity  might  slip. 

Accordingly,  every  preparation  was  made;  a  canoe  was  con- 
cealed in  the  bushes,  on  the  bank  of  the  Brandy  wine,  and  a  dress, 
belonging  to  Ono-keo-co,  was  in  readiness,  in  which  Mrs.  Brabant 
was  to  be  conveyed,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  to  the  canoe. 

It  was  the  dark  of  the  moon,  and  the  night  was  intensely  dark. 
Photobrand,  armed  with  a  tomahawk,  led  Mrs.  Brabant  down  the 
rocky  bank  of  the  Brandy  wine,  every  moment  in  danger  of  tumb- 
ling down  the  precipice.  Suddenly,  torches  glared  upon  the 
gloom  of  night;  voices  were  heard,  and  the  clashing  of  knives. 
A  desperate  fight  ensued,  and  all  was  silent. 

The  next  day  dawned;  it  was  discovered  that  the  captive  was 
gone,  and  the  rocks,  in  the  neighborhood,  stained  with  blood. 
Neomock  could  nowhere  be  found.  Vague  rumors  and  suspicions 
were  whispered,  and  some  suspected  that  a  fight  had  ensued 
between  Neomock  and  Photobrand,  and  that  the  former  had  been 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  151 

slain,  and  the  body  concealed.  The  chief  was  inconsolable  for 
the  loss  of  Neomock,  while  Photobrand  declared  that  he  had  not 
killed  him.  He  was  afraid  to  relate  what  had  transpired  the  night 
before,  as  he  would  thereby  betray  the  secret,  that  he  had  aided 
the  escape  of  the  captive.  Great  grief  was  expressed  by  the  tribe 
for  the  loss  of  so  brave  a  warrior,  and  it  was  resolved,  by  a  solemn 
council  assembled,  that  the  Feast  of  the  Dead  should  be  celebrated, 
in  commemoration  of  his  death.  , 

The  Feast  of  the  Dead,  or  the  Feast  of  Souls,  was  the  most 
solemn  and  magnificent  of  all  the  customs  of  the  Indians.  As 
the  body  of  Neomock  was  supposed  to  have  been  concealed,  a 
mock  corpse  was  made.  This  was  anointed  and  painted,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  real  body,  and  the  women  went  about,  lamenting 
the  death  of  Neomock,  with  the  most  bitter  cries  and  horrid  howl- 
ings,  interspersed  with  pongs,  in  which  the  brave  deeds  of  the 
deceased  were  celebrated^  The  mock  body  was  attended  to  the 
grave  by  great  number?,  where,  arrayed  in  the  most  sumptuous 
habiliments,  it  was  interred.  By  the  side  of  the  corpse  were 
placed  his  tomahawk,  bow  and  arrows,  and  all  the  things  he  valued 
most;  and,  with  them,  food,  to  last  him  on  his  long  journey. 

Then  commenced  the  Feast  of  the  Dead. — All  who  had  been 
buried  since  the  last  feast  of  the  dead,  were  disinterred,  and 
brought  forU»  from  their  graves  to  one  spot.  Many  were  brought 
from  a  distance,  and  all  exposed  to  the  gaze  of  the  multitude.  It 
was  a  horrid  scene  for  Ono-keo-co,  and  presented  the  various 
degrees  of  the  ravages  of  time  on  the  different  dead  bodies.  They 
were  dressed  in  the  finest  skins,  and  set  up  in  groups ;  some  being 
mere  skeletons,  glaring  with  ghastly  sockets;  while  others  were 
just  beginning  to  decay.  Amid  these  solemn  and  horrific  repre- 
sentatives of  the  dead,  they  celebrated  a  variety  of  games,  in  the 
manner  of  the  ancient  Greeks  and  Romans,  songs  were  sung,  and 
dances  were  performed.  As  an  honor  to  the  dead,  they  feasted 
in  their  presence,  and  all  that  remained  of  the  feast,  was  thrown 
into  the  fire.  With  great  pomp,  the  dead  were  then  re-interred, 
and  the  great  multitude  returned  to  their  homes,  well  pleased  with 
the  gorgeous,  though  ghastly  exhibition  of  human  frailty  and  folly. 
But  here,  gentle  reader,  in  having  described  the  strange,  horrid, 
and  cruel  customs  of  the  aborigines,  suffer  me  to  warn  you  not 
to  impute  their  terrific  and  cruel  conduct  wholly  and  entirely  to 
ignorance  and  superstition,  nor  to  suppose  that  superstition  is 
always  the  offspring  of  ignorance.  Roll  back  the  records  of  his- 
tory, and  it  is  apparent.  When  that  splendid  structure,  the  Coli- 


152  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

seum  of  Rome,  the  crumbling  columns  of  which  are  still  standing, 
was  erected,  the  Roman  people  were  considered  the  wisest  in  the 
world,  not  even  excepting  those  of  Greece,  and  were  disseminating 
knowledge  to  the  benighted  nations  around  them.  Yet  in  that 
building  more  people  assembled,  at  one  time,  to  witness  the  con- 
tests between  gladiators  and  wild  beasts,  than  all  the  city  of  Rome 
now  contains.  They  witnessed  the  fight  of  two  gladiators,  or  of  a 
gladiator  and  a  wild  beast,  with  delight;  they  took  sides  in  the 
contest,  and  shouted  with  applause  as  the  one  dealt  the  other  a 
terrible  blow,  which  was  followed  by  a  gush  of  blood,  or  as  the 
wild  beast  tore  the  bowels  from  his  quivering  victim.  Horrible 
exhibitions  were  there,  yet  that  wisest  people  in  the  world  looked 
on  them  with  infinite  pleasure,  and  saw  a  fellow-being  impaled 
alive,  or  torn  to  pieces  by  an  infuriated  lion,  tiger,  or  bull,  and 
applauded  the  triumph  of  the  favored  one,  with  as  much  sangfroid 
as  an  Indian,  when  witnessing  the  heroic  fortitude  of  the  dying 
Obando.  The  Roman  people,  too,  were  as  superstitious  as  the 
Indians  of  Delaware,  as  history  amply  will  substantiate.  They 
believed  in  augurs  or  fortune-tellers,  witchcraft,  and  "goblins 
damned."  At  the  death  of  Caesar  the  ravens  croaked  in  the 
chimneys,  if  they  had  any:  strange  omens  were  heard  and  seen, 
and  the  augur  cried,  "beware  of  the  ides  of  March." 
\ .,  But  to  resume  our  story.  The  chief,  Kankinaw,  gave  orders 
that  a  search  should  be  made,  every  where,  for  the  body  of  his 
brave  son,  Neomock.  It  was  believed,  by  many,  that  Photobrand 
had  slain  him,  in  revenge,  as  a  rival  in  the  love  of  Ono-keo-co, 
and  that  the  body  had  been  given  to  the  waves,  or  concealed 
among  the  innumerable  rocks,  which  were  then  piled  in  awful 
grandeur  on  the  steep  banks  of  the  Brandy  wine,  the  most  of  which 
have  since  been  removed  by  the  hands  of  civilized  art  and  industry. 

But  the  body  could  nowhere  be  found,  and  the  wise  Tamenend 
concluded  that,  as  Neomock  had  been  the  terror  of  the  tribes  with 
which  the  Delawares  had  waged  war;  that,  as  a  reward  had  been 
offered  by  the  Canai  chief,  to  any  one  who  would  take  him  dead 
or  alive,  he  had  been  killed  and  carried  off.  as  a  prize.  War  was, 
therefore,  meditated;  but,  according  to  custom,  it  was  determined 
that  some  time  should  elapse,  in  order  to  lull  suspicion,  that  they 
might  pounce  upon  their  enemy  in  an  hour,  when  he  was  least 
prepared  for  resistance. 

Photobrand,  who  really  possessed  a  feeling  heart,  was  sorry  for 
the  fate  of  his  brother;  though  in  his  love  for  Ono-keo-co,  the 
flower  of  the  forest,  he  was  now  altogether  unmolested.  The  old 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

chief  was  still  inconsolable.  He  had  never  had  but  two  children, 
for  it  is  a  strange  fact,  but  seldom  mentioned  by  historians,  that 
the  Indians,  unlike  the  civilized  whites,  are  not  prolific,  seldom 
having  more  than  two  or  three  children,  and  scarcely  ever  giving 
birth  to  twins,  which  has  been  one  of  the  grand  causes  that  the 
race  has  declined,  and  is  now  rapidly  fading  away  from  the  face 
of  the  earth.  There  is  another  idiosyncrasy  or  peculiarity  in  the 
Indians,  but  little  known,  and  seldom  mentioned  by  writers,  which 
is,  that  they  have  no  beards,  like  white  men,  which  is  one  of  the  wise 
provisions  of  nature,  for  in  the  forest  they  had  no  razors,  no  soap, 
no  barbers.  Thus  we  see,  that  God  adapts  everything  in  nature 
to  its  condition,  object,  or  end.  Were  they  fruitful  in  bearing 
children,  it  is  evident  that,  in  their  wild,  wandering  state,  they 
could  not  properly  take  care  of  them.  When  we  observe  the 
adaptation  of  every  thing  in  the  creation  to  its  condition  or  cir- 
cumstances, how  can  we  deny  the  existence  of  a  Superior  Being? 
Well  might  the  poet  exclaim, 

"An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad." 

But  the  evidence  of  a  God  is  as  plain  and  powerful  in  a  plant 
as  in  a  planet,  in  a  worm  as  in  a  world.  It  is  said  that  fish  have 
recently  been  discovered  in  the  waters  of  that  immense  subter- 
ranean world,  the  mammoth  cave  of  Kentucky,  that  have  no  eyes, 
organs  of  vision  being  useless  in  the  darkness  of  the  eternal  night 
that  reigns  there. 

My  dear  reader  will  excuse  my  frequent  episodes,  or  digres- 
sions, as  they  serve  to  illustrate  the  subject  of  my  story.  They 
contain  the  philosophic  cream  of  the  contents,  and  marrow  of 
the  matter;  being  what  sugar  and  cream  are  to  a  cup  of  coffee. 

Some  time  after  the  captive  had  escaped,  and  Neomock  met 
his  fate,  a  stout,  athletic  squaw  wandered  into  the  settlement  of 
the  Delawares,  on  the  Brandywine,  gaily  adorned  with  beads  and 
feathers,  and  painted  in  the  most  grotesque  manner.  At  first,  the 
practised  eye  of  the  shrewd  Tamenend  thought  he  discovered  in 
her  a  spy;  but,  when  questioned,  she  professed  to  be  skilled  in 
occult  mysteries,  and  to  have  the  power  not  only  of  prophecy,  but 
of  revealing  past  transactions,  which  were  to  other  eyes  wrapped 
in  the  impenetrable  veil  of  obscurity.  On  her  having  given  some 
proofs  of  her  supernatural  powers,  by  unravelling  some  mysteries 
which  they  propounded,  not  only  Kankinaw  and  Tamenend  felt 
an  awe  in  her  presence,  but  great  numbers  thronged  around,  and 
20 


154  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

treated  her  with  all  the  profound  reverence  that  would  be  felt  for 
an  inspired  being,  sent  among  them  by  the  Great  Spirit. 

They  were  anxious  to  learn  the  name  of  the  murderer  of  Neo- 
mock,  which  Kananka,  the  prophetess  and  fortune-teller,  declared 
she  could  reveal,  but  that,  before  she  did  so.  all  the  persons  present 
must  enter  a  charmed  circle,  in  the  centre  of  which  she  herself 
would  stand.  She  declared  that  when  her  incantation  was  com- 
plete, if  they  would  all  at  the  same  time  kneel,  with  their  faces  to 
the  setting  sun,  the  voice  of  Neomock  would  distinctly  pronounce 
the  name  of  his  murderer,  and  would  speak,  in  one  word,  the 
doom  which  the  Great  Spirit  designed  for  him. 

Wonder  and  consternation  were  now  strongly  depicted  on  every 
countenance,  for  they  implicitly  believed  that  her  mission  was 
divine,  as  she  had  already  told  what  none  but  one  inspired  by  the 
Great  Spirit,  could  have  known. 

A  large  circle  was  now  drawn,  and  all  present  entered  the 
charmed  precincts,  with  feelings  of  awe  and  dread.  Photobrand 
came  to  the  spot  at  this  moment,  and,  not  having  heard  the  pre- 
liminary discourse,  refused  to  enter,  which  was  thought  strange, 
and  convinced  many  that  he  was  the  murderer  of  his  brother. 

Kananka,  the  sorceress,  however,  declared  that  it  was  not  ma- 
terial that  he  should  enter,  as  there  were  enough  to  witness  the 
pronunciation  of  the  name  of  the  murderer.  After  having  per- 
formed some  mysterious  rites,  the  sorceress  declared  that  the 
revelation  had  commenced,  and  that  if  it  was  desired  by  the  chief, 
she  would  repeat  it  to  the  assembled  multitude.  The  chief  ex- 
pressed a  desire  to  hear  what  was  revealed,  and  Kananka  com- 
menced, by  asking — 

"  Have  you,  great  chief,  a  beautiful  captive,  called  Ono-keo-co?" 

"We  have."  answered  the  chief,  with  a  tremulous  voice. 

"She  has  been  the  innocent  cause  of  the  murder  of  your  son, 
and  of  all  your  grief." 

While  the  sorceress  spoke,  the  assembled  Indians  silently  gazed 
upon  one  another  in  astonishment. 

"  Your  brave  son,  Neomock,"  continued  Kananka,  the  sorceress, 
"loved  her,  when  his  eyes  first  fell  upon  her,  and  she  loved  him; 
but  Photobrand Have  you  a  son,  named  Photobrand?" 

"He  has,"  answered  Tamenend,  after  a  pause,  for  the  chief  was 
so  overpowered  by  his  feelings  that  he  could  not  speak. 

"Well,  your  son,  Photobrand,  meanly  stole  away  from  Neomock 
the  love  of  Ono-keo-co,  and " 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  155 

"It  is  false!  by  the  great  Mannitto,"  exclaimed  Photobrand, 
while  a  shudder  of  horror,  at  the  sacrilege,  ran  through  the  crowd. 

'•I  am  inspired  so  to  speak,"  said  the  mysterious  sorceress. 
"Nay,  worse  is  that  which  is  now  revealed  to  me.  Photobrand 
hated  his  brother,  because  he  first  loved  the  Flower  of  the  Forest, 
and,  not  satisfied  with  the  triumph  of  having  stolen  her  affection, 
he  cherished  in  his  bosom  the  serpent  of  jealousy." 

"It  is  a  base  lie!"  exclaimed  Photobrand,  while  the  multitude 
again  shuddered,  and  a  murmur  was  heard  among  the  assembly. 

"Not  satisfied  with  being  jealous  of  his  generous  brother," 
continued  the  sorceress,  with  imperturable  gravity,  "he  attempted 
his  life — yes,  the  life  of  his  harmless,  gentle  brother." 

Enraged  at  this  assertion,  Photobrand  rushed  at  the  sorceress, 
with  all  the  wrath  of  an  enraged  tiger,  when,  to  the  astonishment 
of  all,  he  seemed  like  a  child  in  her  grasp.  She  held  him  still  for 
a  moment,  and  then,  lifting  him  with  apparent  ease,  she  pitched 
him  outside  of  the  enchanted  circle. 

Astonished  at  this,  the  spectators,  more  than  ever,  were  satisfied 
that  Kananka  was  indeed  a  wonderful  being,  endowed  with  strange 
gifts,  seeing  that  a  woman  could  thus  manage  a  man,  as  a  man 
would  a  child.  If  they  stood  in  awe  of  her  before,  they  now 
feared  her  as  a  mysterious  being,  possessing  mysterious  powers, 
to  resist  whom  or  which  was  in  the  highest  degree  rashness  and 
folly. 

Even  Photobrand,  who  looked  on  her  as  an  imposter  before, 
now  felt  a  dread  of  her,  as  one  to  whom  was  given  powers  not 
delegated  to  common  mortals,  for  nothing  but  proof,  could  have 
persuaded  him  that  a  woman  could  have  thus  handled  him.  The 
revelation  now  continued. 

"Now,"  said  Kananka,  "I  repeat  that  Photobrand  attempted 
the  life  of  his  brother,  twice."  While  the  Indians  simultaneously 
turned  their  eyes  upon  Photobrand,  a  loud  voice  pronounced  the 
name  of  Photobrand,  and  immediately  after,  the  word  "DEATH." 
All  started  at  the  sound,  for  they  recognized  the  voice  of  Neo- 
mock,  altogether  unlike  the  shrill,  fine,  feminine  voice  of  the  Sor- 
ceress. Every  eye  was  fixed  upon  Photobrand,  who  stood  speech- 
less, as  if  spell-bound,  while  Ono-keo-co  wrung  her  hands,  and 
protested  his  innocence  of  the  crime;  well  knowing  that,  if  the 
tribe  should  be  fully  persuaded  of  his  guilt,  he  would  be  doomed 
to  death. 

The  multitude  became  more  and  more  convinced  of  the  truth 
of  what  the  Sorceress  had  professed,  and  by  a  singular  process  of 


156  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

logic,  were  rapidly  arriving  at  conclusions,  which  strongly  impli- 
cated the  unhappy  brother  in  the  crime  of  murder.  Condemna- 
tion was  openly  pronounced,  by  many,  against  Photobrand;  but 
the  enlarged  mind  of  Tamenend,  not  altogether  ignorant  of  juris- 
prudence, saw  the  unjust  course  which  public  opinion  was  taking, 
and  delivered  an  address  to  the  multitude,  in  which  he  pointed  out 
the  injustice  of  condemning  a  brave  warrior  without  proof.  He 
declared  that  they  had  not  only  to  prove  that  Photobrand  was 
guilty,  but  that  Neomock  was  dead;  and  if  dead,  that  he  had  been 
murdered.  As  much  as  we,  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  boast  of 
having  invented  or  given  origin  to  the  trial  by  jury,  it  appears  that 
the  early  Indians  were  not  totally  ignorant  of  that  glorious  insti- 
tution, for  it  appears  that  in  difficult  cases  they  appointed  men, 
who  acted  both  as  witnesses  and  jurors,  to  decide  the  guilt  of  the 
prisoner. 

Had  not  Tamenend,  however,  represented  the  injustice  of  the 
matter,  Photobrand  would  have  been  condemned  instanter,  viva 
voce,  by  the  voice  of  the  multitude,  so  much  were  the  minds  of 
the  people  influenced  by  the  incantations,  or  mysterious  declara- 
tions of  Kananka,  the  Sorceress.  Superstition  was  powerful,  but 
Tamenend  stayed,  in  a  measure,  the  overwhelming  tide  of  indig- 
nation, which  threatened  to  roll  over  Photobrand.  It  was,  there- 
fore, resolved,  in  solemn  council,  to  have  proof  positive  of  the 
guilt  of  the  accused,  before  he  should  be  irrevocably  doomed  to 
destruction. 

"  Can  you  prove,"  enquired  Tamenend,  who  had  been  the 
teacher,  and  who  was  greatly  attached  to  Photobrand,  "that  he 
killed  Neomock?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Sorceress,  "there  is  proof." 

"Bring  it,  then,"  commanded  the  Chief,  in  tears,  "and  though 
Photobrand  is  my  favorite  son,  he  shall  suffer  death.  I  have  said 
it  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Spirit — he  shall  die,  if  guilty." 

Ono-keo-co  screamed  at  these  awful  denunciatory  words,  but 
Photobrand  heard  them  without  betraying  the  least  emotion,  either 
in  word  or  gesture,  but  calmly  said, 

"If  I  am  guilty,  oh!  my  father,  I  am  ready  and  willing  to  die." 

The  noble  bearing  of  Photobrand  had  entirely  won  the  affec- 
tions of  Ono-keo-co,  and  she  had  yielded  to  him  her  whole  soul. 
Beautiful  and  gentle,  she  was  all  that  he  could  desire  her  to  be, 
for,  as  Caesar  desired  his  wife  to  be,  not  only  virtuous,  but  beyond 
suspicion,  her  reputation  was  unspotted  by  even  a  breath.  When 
painted,  and  arrayed  with  gay  beads,  and  ribbands,  and  Photobrand, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  157 

her  lover,  spared  nothing  that  would  deck  and  adorn  her,  she  was 
truly  a  beautiful  flower  of  the  forest, 

Tamenend  now  made  it  obligatory  on  the  Sorceress  to  bring 
forth  not  only  one,  but  several  witnesses,  who  were  to  declare,  in 
the  presence  of  Mannitto,  the  Great  Spirit,  equivalent  to  the 
Christian  oath,  that  Neomock  was  dead;  that  he  was  murdered; 
and  that  Photobrand  was  the  murderer.  This,  the  Sorceress  did 
not  hesitate  to  promise  to  do.  The  Chief  declared  that  Photo- 
brand  should  enjoy  the  kindness  of  all,  and  hold  the  same  high 
distinction  as  a  warrior,  until  it  was  fully  proven  that  he  was  guilty, 
and  then  he  should  be  stripped  of  all  his  honors;  the  scalps,  that 
graced  his  wigwam,  should  be  burnt;  and  that  he  should  die  an 
ignominious  death. 

Ono-keo-co  clung  to  Photobrand,  weeping  and  protesting  his 
innocence,  while  he  embraced  the  Chief  and  Tamenend,  declaring 
his  innocence,  and  reiterating  the  assertion,  that  he  woulfl  ever 
prefer  death  to  dishonor,  and  again  declaring  his  readiness  to  die 
by  the  most  excruciating  torments,  if  he  were  fairly  proven  guilty. 

The  Sorceress  departed,  positively  assuring  the  multitude  that 
she  could  find,  and  bring  forward,  persons,  who  would  declare 
that  Photobrand  killed  his  brother.  Notwithstanding  the  lack  of 
proof,  the  greater  portion  of  the  people  believed  that  Photobrand 
had  murdered  Neomock;  and  their  belief  in  the  supernatural 
powers  of  Kananka,  nothing  could  shake.  She  must  be  gifted  by 
the  Great  Spirit,  said  they,  in  their  mode  of  reasoning,  or  how 
could  she  know  of  the  loves  of  Photobrand  and  Ono-keo-co,  and 
that,  on  her  account,  he  had  killed  his  brother?  thus  taking  it  for 
granted,  that  he  really  was  the  murderer. 

The  Chief  and  Tamenend  were  deeply  distressed,  lest  it  should 
appear  that  Photobrand  had  slain  his  brother  in  a  fit  of  jealousy, 
and  that  the  former  would  thus  be  rendered  childless.  With 
aching  hearts  they  awaited  the  return  of  the  Sorceress;  and  the 
danger  which  now  surrounded  Photobrand,  increased  the  affliction 
of  Ono-keo-co,  uivtil  she  seemed  to  idolize  him,  and  to  live  only 
in  his  existence.  With  the  devotion  of  woman,  when  she  once 
loves,  she  gave  up  her  whole  soul  to  the  object  of  her  idolatry, 
and  identified  herself  with  every  thing  that  concerned  him.  She 
even  resolved  in  her  own  mind,  that  she  would  die  with  him,  if, 
through  stratagem  and  false  evidence,  the  life  of  her  lover  should 
be  sacrificed;  for  she  could  never  entertain  the  idea,  for  a  moment, 
that  he  was  guilty.  She  knew  that  Photobrand  had  loved  his 
brother,  and  she  well  knew  that  his  heart  was  alive  to  those  gen- 


158  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

erous  impulses  and  feelings  which  would  prompt  him  to  any  ac- 
tion, rather  than  that  of  imbruing  his  hands  in  a  brother's  blood. 
Her  soul  recoiled  at  the  thought  of  imputing  such  a  dark  and 
dreadful  crime  to  him,  and  she  lived  in  the  hope  of  seeing  him 
rise  triumphant  over  his  enemies  and  their  machinations.  Photo- 
brand  had  many  enemies  among  the  young  warriors,  as  superior 
men  ever  have,  even  in  a  civilized  and  Christian  community. 
Envy  gnawed,  like  the  viper  at  the  file.  His  superior  endow- 
ments, fame,  birth,  (for  even  the  Indians  had  aristocratic  notions,) 
excited  the  envy  of  inferior  men,  and  envy  is  the  parent  of  hatred, 
and  often  of  revenge,  which  gluts  itself,  or  rather  its  own  inferi- 
ority, by  attempting  to  drag  every  thing  down  to  its  own  level. 
We  may  preach  equality  to  the  end  of  time,  but  the  time  will 
never  come  when  all  men  shall  be  equal.  We  might  as  well  look 
for  equality  among  the  stars,  and  expect  to  find  the  moon  shining 
with  the  same  brilliance  as  the  sun.  We  might  as  well  expect  the 
same  qualities  in  iron,  lead,  or  copper,  that  are  inherent  in  gold. 
As  gold  is  superior  in  its  greater  properties  of  ductility  and  mal- 
leability, so  are  some  men  superior  to  others  in  attributes,  which 
can  never  be  equalled  by  the  inferior.  Men  can  never  be  equal, 
only  in  natural  rights,  among  which  are  life,  liberty,  and  the  pur- 
suit of  happiness;  and  this  was  all  the  equality  that  Thomas  Jef- 
ferson intended  to  specify,  in  that  magna  charta,  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  As  soon  will  you  find  equality  in  a  barrel  of 
apples,  a  bushel  of  wheat,  a  field  of  corn,  or  an  orchard  of  trees — 
as  soon  will  you  find  equality  in  a  herd  of  cattle  or  horses,  a  pen 
full  of  pigs,  or  a  garden  filled  with  flowers,  as  in  the  human  family. 
The  flowers  of  the  field,  and  the  trees  of  the  orchard  are  equal,  as 
it  regards  their  natural  rights,  or  powers  of  enjoying  the  sunshine 
and  showers,  and  of  imbibing  nourishment  from  the  earth;  but 
they  are  not  equal  in  themselves.  One  is  superior  to  another,  in 
its  beauty,  its  size,  its  useful  properties,  and  many  other  respects. 
So,  in  like  manner,  men  are  equal  in  their  natural  rights;  but  not 
in  themselves.  Some  possess  greater  strength,  greater  minds;  are 
more  useful  to  the  community  in  which  they  live;  but  the  misfor- 
tune is,  that  they  do  not  always  rank  as  they  deserve;  the  most 
wise  and  most  useful  do  not  always  stand  the  highest;  neither  do 
the  most  virtuous.  This  arises  from  the  fact  that  society  is  based 
on  false  principles. 

But  to  proceed.  It  was  not  long  before  Kananka,  the  Sorceress, 
returned,  with  several  persons,  curiously  habited  and  painted,  who, 
she  pretended,  were  as  deeply  skilled  in  necromancy  as  herself, 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  159 

and  who  were  present  on  the  night  that  Neomock  was  murdered. 
Photobrand  gazed  silently  upon  them,  and  appeared  to  be  un- 
moved, though  he  felt  that  his  doom  would  be  sealed  if  they  testi- 
fied against  him,  notwithstanding  his  innocence.  The  tears  of 
Ono-keo-co  fell  fast,  for  she  saw  the  danger  to  which  her  betrothed 
was  exposed.  So  soon  as  it  was  rumored  that  Kananka,  the  Sor- 
ceress, had  arrived,  there  was  a  great  gathering  of  the  people, 
from  all  directions,  to  listen  to  the  trial  of  Photobrand,  for  the 
murder  of  his  brother.  Curiosity  was  abroad,  and  gathered  great 
numbers,  some  of  whom  sincerely  hoped  that  he  might  be  proven 
guilty.  Oonatonga,  the  public  orator,  in  the  manner  of  the  crier 
of  our  courts,  proclaimed  that  the  wise  men  of  the  tribe  were  as- 
sembled, and  the  Sorceress  would  proceed  in  what  she  had  under- 
taken. 

A  circle  was  drawn,  into  which  none  were  admitted  but  those 
who  were  concerned  in  the  proceedings.  The  wise  men,  or 
judges,  were  in  one  group,  on  one  side  of  the  circle;  the  Sorce- 
ress, and  her  witnesses,  in  another;  and  the  Chief,  Tamenend,  and 
Photobrand,  in  a  third.  Thus  situated,  the  Sorceress  commenced 
by  giving  a  detailed  history  of  the  circumstance  of  Ono-keo-co 
being  brought  into  the  tribe,  as  a  captive;  of  her  being  adopted 
by  the  Chief;  of  the  influence  of  her  beauty  on  the  hearts  of 
Photobrand  and  Neomock;  and  of  the  quarrels  that  ensued  be- 
tween the  brothers,  on  account  of  the  meanness  of  Photobrand, 
in  stealing  the  affections  of  Ono-keo-co  from  Neomock,  who  had 
first  loved  her.  She  stated  that  Photobrand  had  estranged  the 
heart  of  the  beautiful  flower  of  the  forest  from  Neomock,  by  all 
manner  of  lying  devices,  and  mentioned  several  circumstances 
which  had  transpired,  and  which  were  unknown  even  to  the  Chief. 
At  this  the  crowd  greatly  marvelled,  for  they  could  not  conceive 
how  she  could  have  known  that  which  was  unknown,  even  to  the 
Chief,  unless  the  Great  Spirit  had  enlightened  her  mind. 

So  much  was  Ono-keo-co  distressed  at  the  situation  in  which 
Photobrand  was  placed,  that  she  was  not  suffered  to  appear  at  the 
trial,  but  kept  confined  in  the  wigwam.  The  Chief,  who  was  de- 
votedly attached  to  her,  feared  that  the  condemnation  of  Photo- 
brand  might  come  too  suddenly  upon  her,  and  even  he  began  now 
to  believe  that  Photobrand  would  be  proven  guilty  of  the  murder 
of  his  brother. 

The  Sorceress  had  brought  several  men,  and  two  women,  to 
substantiate  the  guilt  of  the  accused;  all  of  whom  were  painted 
in  the  manner  of  the  Indians,  save  that  these  were  painted  in  the 


160  WJUTINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

most  grotesque  and  ludicrous  fashion.  The  first,  who  was  called 
up  to  testify,  represented  himself  to  be  a  bandit,  and  stated,  that 
he  had  been  employed  by  a  Chief  of  the  Canai  Indians,  to  carry 
off  Neomock  alive,  as  he  had  killed  in  battle  several  relatives  of 
the  Chief.  He  stated,  that  he,  with  others,  had  come  to  the 
Brandyvvine  with  the  view  of  suddenly  seizing  Neomock,  when 
alone,  and  if  they  failed  in  that,  to  steal  into  his  wigwam,  at 
the  dead  of  night,  to  gag,  bind,  and  carry  him  off.  After  watch- 
ing some  time  in  vain,  they  resolved,  on  one  dark  night,  to  enter 
his  wigwam;  but  just  as  they  were  stealing  up  the  rocks,  having 
come  down  the  Brandywine  in  a  canoe,  they  saw  a  torch-light 
gleaming  in  the  woods,  and  concealed  themselves  in  the  rocks  to 
see  who  came. 

"We  soon  saw,"  said  the  narrator,  "that  the  bearer  of  the  torch 
was  Photobrand,  anfl  th'at  he  was  conducting  a  woman  down  the 
steep  bank,  in  the  direction  in  which  we  were  concealed.  We 
continued  quiet,  beneath  the  covert  of  a  large  rock,  to  watch  the 
proceedings.  They  had  passed  but  a  few  steps,  when  we  heard 
other  footsteps  approaching,  and  Venturing  to  look  up,  saw  Neo- 
mock approaching.  He  mildly  remonstrated  with  his  brother,  for 
having  used  him  cruelly,  when  Photobrand  placed  the  woman  in 
the  canoe;  pushed  it  from  the  shore;  and  then  furiously  rushed 
upon  his  brother  with  uplifted  tomahawk." 

"It  is  a  lie,"  cried  Photobrand,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  and 
springing  upon  his  feet,  he  brandished  his  knife;  but  he  was  in- 
stantly seized,  and  held,  while  the  narrator  proceeded. 

"Neomock,  by  a  sudden  leap,  eluded  the  blow,  and  ran  up  the 
rocks,  a  short  distance,  begging  his  brother  not-  to  imbrue  his 
hands  in  his  brother's  blood,  nor  render  it  necessary  for  him  to 
stain  his  hands  with  his." 

As  the  narrator  related  this,  a  sensation  ran  through  the  assem- 
bly, and  all  eyes  were  turned  in  horror  on  Photobrand,  who  gritted 
his  teeth  with  rage. 

"But,"  continued  the  narrator,  "Photobrand  rushed  again  upon 
his  brother,  who  seized  him  in  his  arms,  and,  after  disarming  him, 
nobly  gave  him  his  life,  at  the  same  time  handing  the  knife  lo  him. 
This,  instead  of  subduing  him,  as  you  all  know  it  would  have 
done,  had  he  possessed  a  noble  spirit,  only  rendered  him  more 
furious,  and  when  Neomock  saw  that  there  was  no  generosity  in 
him,  and  that  he  was  determined  to  slay  him,  he  resolved  to  stand 
in  his  own  defence.  'Your  blood  be  upon  your  own  head,'  said 
he,  as  Photobrand  came  full  tilt  upon  him  again.  They  clung, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  161 

fell,  and  rolled  together  down  the  hill  into  the  water,  the  blood 
streaming  from  Neomock's  wounds.  By  the  light  of  the  torch, 
which  Photobrand  had  laid  upon  a  rock  near  the  shore,  we  could 
see  them  fighting,  like  dogs,  in  the  water." 

A  shudder  ran  through  the  assembly,  as  the  narrator  continued : 

"Photobrand  would  have  soon  been  overpowered,  had  he  not 
cut  an  artery  in  the  arm  of  Neomock,  from  the  rapid  bleeding  of 
which  he  soon  fainted.  No  sooner  did  he  faint,  than  Photobrand 
rose  over  him,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart,  three  times,  while 
the  blood  of  a  brother  gushed  into  his  face." 

A  cry  of  horror  arose  from  the  multitude,  at  these  words;  while 
Photobrand  writhed,  and  wept  with  rage. 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  cried  several  voices  simultaneously. 

"No,  no,  it  is  enough,"  exclaimed  the  Chief,  as  he  bursted  into 
tears,  "I  am  childless  in  my  old  age.'*  The  good  Tamenend 
bowed  his  head,  and  wept  with  him  for  some  time. 

All  were  now  satisfied  of  the  guilt  of  Photobrand,  and  many 
began  to  wander  whether  Kankinaw  would  have  the  courage  to 
put  his  own  son  to  death.  He  had  declared,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Great  Spirit,  that  he  should  die,  if  found  guilty;  and  now,  in 
despite  of  the  protestations  of  innocence  by  Photobrand,  every 
one,  save  Ono-keo-co,  believed  him  to  be  guilty.  So  well  satisfied 
were  they,  that  it  was  not  considered  necessary  to  examine  any 
more  witnesses.  Photobrand  bent  his  eye,  with  a  scowling  coun- 
tenance, upon  the  Sorceress  and  her  attendants,  but  it  was  in  vain 
that  he  declared  them  to  be  impostors  who  were,  for  some  reason, 
plotting  against  his  life.  The  Chief  shook  his  head  and  wept, 
while  Tamenend- lamented  that  so  brave  a  young  warrior  should 
be  sacrificed  to  the  manes  of  his  murdered  brother. 

When  Ono-keo-co  was  informed  of  the  fate  of  Photobrand,  she 
raved;  tore  the  long  tresses  of  her  hair,  and  rent  her  garments  in 
the  violence  of  her  grief.  Like  Calypso,  she  could  not  be  con- 
soled for  the  loss  of  her  Ulysses,  for  well  she  knew  that  tyrant 
custom  would  doom  him  to  death.  The  Chief  repented  that 
he  had  vowed,  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Spirit,  that  he  should 
die,  if  pronounced  guilty,  which  was  now  the  case;  and,  notwith- 
standing Tamenend  and  Ono-keo-co  plead,  with  prayers  and  tears, 
for  the  life  of  Photobrand,  the  Chief  was  inexorable,  he  having 
made  the  irrevocable  vow. 

To  Photobrand,  death  had  no  terror,  apart  from  Ono-keo-co. 
The  only  pang  to  his  brave  soul  was,  that  he  must  leave  her,  or 
that  she  must  die  too,  for  she  had  already  concealed  the  knife, 
21 


62  WRITINGS    OF  THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

with  which  she  intended  to  destroy  herself  and  perish  in  his  arms. 
Photobrand  regretted  that  he  must  die  with  the  stain  of  murder 
upon  him,  when  he  was  entirely  innocent,  and  he  assured  his  father 
that,  when  he  was  dead,  the  truth  would  come  to  light,  and  show 
that  he  was  guiltless.  Kankinaw  listened  not  to  this,  for  he  be- 
lieved it  to  be  only  the  ingenious  pleading  for  life.  But  he  was 
touched  by  the  tears  and  prayers  of  the  beautiful  Ono-keo-co,  and 
regretted  the  necessity  of  closing  his  ears  to  her  cries  for  mercy. 

The  next  day  was  fixed  for  the  execution  of  Photobrand,  and  a 
vast  assemblage  gathered  to  witness  the  execution.  He  was  to 
die  by  the  tomahawk,  which  was  considered  the  quickest  and  most 
merciful  death.  He  was  fastened  to  a  stake,  which  had  been 
driven  in  the  ground,  and  several  warriors  were  stationed,  with 
tomahawks,  at  a  few  paces  distance,  who,  at  the  word  of  com- 
mand, were  to  send  their  weapons  through  his  skull  to  his  brain, 
and  their  aim  was  certain  death. 

Photobrand  was  thus  situated,  every  moment  expecting  to  feel 
the  deadly  tomahawk  riving  and  rending  asunder  his  skull,  on  its 
way  to  his  brain ;  when  all  were  startled,  in  the  solemn  scene,  by 
a  loud  cry,  a  wild  scream;  and,  the  next  moment,  the  form  of 
Ono-keo-co  was  seen  approaching  the  spot,  with  dishevelled  hair 
and  rent  garments.  No  sooner  did  she  approach,  than  two  of  the 
followers  of  the  Sorceress  gazed  upon  her,  with  a  bewildered  air, 
as  if  they  had  seen  her  before.  One  of  them  advanced  towards 
her,  while  she  was  pleading  for  the  life  of  Photobrand,  and  gazed 
in  her  face,  acting,  in  the  mean  time,  like  one  who  is  demented. 
At  length  he  tore  the  painted  mask  from  his  face,  and  clasped  her 
in  his  arms,  crying  out,  in  the  most  rapturous  tones, 

"My  daughter!  my  beloved  Lelia!  I  have  found  you  at  last! 
Heaven  be  praised,  I  have  found  you  at  last!" 

In  a  moment  Ono-keo-co  recognized  the  face  of  her  father, 
Nicholas  Brabant.  So  soon  as  Brabant  discovered  that  Photobrand 
was  the  betrothed  of  his  daughter,  he  declared  to  the  Chief  that 
he  was  not  guilty,  and  that  a  conspiracy  was  formed  to  take  his 
life. 

"Seize  on  these  wretches,"  said  the  Chief,  and,  in  an 'instant, 
the  Sorceress  and  her  followers  were  arrested  and  confined. 

Brabant  now  informed  Ono-keo-co,  in  the  presence  of  Kanki- 
naw and  Tamenend,  that  when  she  was  carried  off  he  went  in 
pursuit  of  her,  in  company  with  the  bandit,  Lander,  who  betrayed 
him  into  the  hands  of  a  distant  tribe,  from  whom,  for  a  long  time, 
he  could  not  escape  That  when  he  did  escape,  a  short  time 

Th 


WRITINGS    OF    THE   MILFORD    BARD.  163 

before,  he  met  the  Sorceress,  Kananka,  in  the  forest,  with  those 
who  were  now  prisoners. 

"She  told  me,"  continued  Nick,  "that  if  I  would  assist  in  a 
certain  stratagem,  I  should  be  rewarded;  received  into  the  tribe, 
and  have  many  favors.  I  agreed,  without  knowing  exactly  what 
part  I  was  to  act.  She  then  told  me  that  there  were  two  brothers, 
among  the  Delawares,  sons  of  the  Chief,  who  were  both  in  love 
with  a  beautiful  pale  face,  and  that  the  object  was  to  get  rid  of  the 
favorite  brother,  that  the  other  might  possess  the  lovely  Ono-keo- 
co.  The  suspicion  flashed  across  my  mind  that,  as  Ono-keo-co 
had  been  brought  into  the  tribe  as  a  captive,  she  might  be  my 
(laughter." 

"It  strikes  me,"  said  Tamenend,  "that  there  is  a  deep  laid 
scheme  of  treachery  in  this  matter.  Let  the  Sorceress  and  her 
followers  be  brought  here,  before  us.  My  life  as  the  forfeit,  that 
Photobrand  has  been  treacherously  dealt  with,  and  that  his  brother 
has  laid  a  scheme  to  sacrifice  him." 

"Ay,"  returned  Photobrand,  "you  will  find  me  innocent." 

The  Chief  now  began  to  suspect  that  all  was  not  fair,  and  or- 
dered that  the  Sorceress,  and  those  with  her,  should  be  brought 
forth,  to  confront  Brabant.  The  excitement,  caused  by  this  suspi- 
cion, spread  among  the  tribe,  and  a  great  number  gathered,  to 
witness  the  result.  When  Kananka  was  brought  out,  there  was  a 
great  change  in  her  demeanor.  Her  boldness  and  confidence 
were  gone,  and  fear  was  plainly  visible  upon  her  countenance. 
She  hesitated,  and  frequently  contradicted  her  own  assertions; 
proving  that  a  liar  must  be  gifted  with  a  good  memory,  in  order  to 
be  successful  in  deception. 

"The  intention,  then,"  enquired  Tamenend,  "was  to  destroy 
Photobrand,  that  his  brother  might  possess  Ono-keo-co?" 

"That  was  the  intention,"  replied  Brabrant,  "which  she  com- 
municated to  me,  after  I  had  promised  to  assist.  I  did  not  intend 
that  Photobrand  should  perish  by  such  mean  treachery,  and  should 
have  exposed  it.  had  I  not  discovered  my  daughter." 

"It  appears,  then,"  said  Tamenend,  "  that  Neomock  is  not  dead, 
but  has  invented  this  treacherous  scheme  to  destroy  his  brother, 
and  thereby  possess  Ono-keo-co?" 

"Even  so,"  returned  Brabant.  "She  assured  me  that  he  was 
living,  and  that  if  he  succeeded  in  obtaining  the  object  of  his 
affection,  that  I  should  hold  a  high  rank  in  the  tribe,  and  be  amply 
rewarded.  The  whole  story  of  the  murder  was  invented,  and  the 
blood,  discovered  on  the  rocks,  was  placed  there  by  design.  It 


164  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

was  the  blood  of  a  small  animal,  carried  there  and  slaughtered  at 
night.  He  had  overheard  the  plan  of  the  escape  of  the  captive, 
and  knew  that  the  circumstance  would  favor  his  intention." 

At  these  words,  a  murmur  ran  through  the  assembly ;  the  Chief 
and  Tamenend,  both,  stared  with  mingled  wonder  and  horror  de- 
picted on  their  countenances;  while  the  Sorceress,  silent  and 
abashed,  stood  as  if  spell-bound. 

"And  Photobrand  was  to  be  sacrificed,"  muttered  the  Chief,  as 
if  musing,  "that  his  cruel  and  ungenerous  brother  might  possess 
the  fair  flower,  whose  affections  Photobrand  had  nobly  won." 

"I  have  it!"  exclaimed  Tamenend,  rising  from  his  seat  with 
great  energy,  "I  see  through  the  base  design!  This  Sorceress, 
this  Kananka,  who  has  imposed  upon  us,  is  no  other  than  Neo- 
mock!" 

At  these  words  of  the  sage  Tamenend,  a  wild  cry  arose  from  the 
multitude,  and  many  rushed  forward  to  obtain  a  nearer  view  of  the 
Sorceress.  The  Chief  was  astonished,  confounded ;  for  such  a 
thought  had  never  entered  his  mind. 

"Let  him  be  examined;"  cried  Tamenend,  "let  him  be  stripped 
of  all  the  strange  ornaments  and  gear,  and,  my  word  for  it,  you 
shall  find  Neomock  in  disguise." 

The  Sorceress  was  immediately  taken  to  a  wigwam ;  the  long 
female  hair  was  taken  from  his  head;  the  painted  mask  was  taken 
off;  the  female  garb  and  gauds  were  doffed ;  the  dress  of  Neo- 
mock put  on;  and  lo!  Neomock,  the  identical  Neomock,  stood 
before  the  astonished  multitude,  looking  more  like  a  criminal  than 
an  accuser.  A  long,  loud  shout,  rose  from  the  strong  lunged 
warriors;  and  the  women  set  up  a  doleful  howling,  which  was 
echoed,  and  re-echoed,  along  the  rock-bound  Brandywine. 

"Death  to  the  traitor!  death  to  Neomock!"  broke  from  a  hun- 
dred tongues,  till  echo  caught  the  sound  on  her  silver  shell,  and 
from  a  hundred  hills  came  back  the  words — "Death  to  the  traitor! 
Death  to  Neomock!" 

"And  who  are  these,"  said  the  Chief,  "who  obeyed  the  will  of 
Neomock,  in  dooming  Photobrand  to  a  guiltless  grave?  Who  is 
he,  who  testified  that  Photobrand  was  guilty  of  murder?" 

"  He  is  a  bandit  and  a  villain,"  exclaimed  Brabant,  "  who  treach- 
erously induced  an  Indian  to  carry  off"  my  daughter,  and  who,  in 
the  name  of  friendship,  accompanied  me  in  pursuit,  and  betrayed 
me  into  the  hands  of  a  distant  tribe,  among  whom  I  was  for  yeajs 
a  captive.  His  name  is  Lander." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  165 

"His  villainy  is  known,"  said  Tamenend,  "and  he  shall  meet 
the  doom  he  merits." 

Lander,  though  a  fierce  and  cruel  man,  was  at  heart  a  coward, 
and  he  trembled  at  the  words  of  Tamenend. 

"Thank  the  Great  Spirit,"  ejaculated  the  Chief,  "Photobrand  is 
innocent,  and  has  been  saved  from  a  cruel,  unmerited  death!" 

Ono-keo-co  was  frantic  with  joy,  and  clung  convulsively  to  Pho- 
tobrand, while  Neomock  gazed  on  them  with  a  dark  scowling 
countenance.  He  had  been  disappointed  in  the  accomplishment 
of  the  dearest  hope  of  his  heart,  and  expected  death  as  the  pen- 
alty of  his  treachery ;  but  fear  did  not  subdue  his  fierce  intractable 
soul,  in  which  the  fires  of  jealousy  and  revenge  still  burned.  He 
envied  every  smile,  every  caress,  every  look  of  love,  that  Photo- 
brand  received  from  Ono-keo-co. 

Brabant  started,  in  company  with  some  hunters,  up  the  Brandy- 
wine,  he  being  now  a  great  favorite  with  the  Chief,  on  a  hunting 
expedition,  provisions  having  become  scarce.  During  their  ab- 
sence, it  was  decreed  by  the  Chief  that,  as  the  life  of  Photobrand 
had  been  so  greatly  endangered,  the  fate  of  Neomock,  and  his 
fellow-conspirators,  should  be  placed  in  his  hands,  that  he  might 
mete  out  to  them  whatever  punishment  they  deserved.  Photobrand 
pitied  his  brother,  and,  notwithstanding  his  having  conspired 
against  his  life,  he  could  not  think  of  pronouncing  his  death-war- 
rant. Neomock  was  too  proud  to  beg  his  life,  and  declared  that 
he  would  rather  perish  than  see  Ono-keo-co  the  wife  of  Photo- 
brand,  or  stoop  to  the  mean  alternative  of  begging  for  life. 

"  Then  take  your  life,  unconditionally,"  said  the  generous  Pho- 
tobrand, "I  desire  not  to  stain  my  hands  with  your  blood.  Go, 
and  be  happy,  if  you  can.  Ono-keo-co,  uninfluenced  by  any  one, 
has  preferred  me,  and  why  should  you  complain?  The  Great 
Spirit  has  willed  that  she  shall  be  mine." 

Neomock,  without  deigning  to  reply,  turned  upon  his  heel,  and 
stalked  sullenly  away.  But  the  Chief  was  not  disposed  to  let  him 
escape  entirely  without  punishment.  A  council  was  called,  and 
it  was  decreed  that  Neomock  should  be  disgraced,  and  banished 
from  the  tribe.  This  sentence  he  heard  unmoved,  and  he  suddenly 
conceived  the  idea  of  carrying  Ono-keo-co  with  him.  Accord- 
ingly, after  he  had  taken  a  formal  leave,  he  concealed  himself 
among  the  rocks  and  bushes,  and  that  night  watched  for  an  op- 
portunity to  seize  the  object  of  his  idolatry. 

According  to  her  usual  custom,  Ono-keo-co  strayed  alone  on 
the  romantic  banks  of  the  Brandywine,  then  far  more  wild  and 


166  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

picturesque  than  at  present.  The  sun  had  sunk  in  golden  glory 
behind  the  western  hills,  and  the  full  round  moon  hung,  like  a 
silver  chandelier,  in  the  great  hall  of  heaven,  as  she  wandered 
among  the  green  glades,  and  watched  the  waters,  illumined  by  the 
moon's  rays,  as  they  rippled  over  the  rocky  bed  of  that  romantic 
stream. 

Photobrand  was  sauntering  on  behind,  unseen.  Suddenly  a 
scream  pierced  the  ear  of  Photobrand,  and,  looking  up,  he  beheld 
Neomock  running  up  the  steep  ascent,  just  opposite  where  the 
upper  dam  is  now,  with  Ono-keo-co  in  his  arms.  She  had  uttered 
but  one  scream,  for  she  fainted  at  the  moment  that  she  recognized 
Neomock.  Being  unencumbered,  Photobrand  rapidly  pursued, 
and  gained  on  him,  for  love  lent  wings  to  the  pursuer. 

Before  Neomock  reached  the  top  of  the  declivity,  finding  that 
Photobraud  was  close  upon  him,  he  laid  down  the  apparently  life- 
less form  of  Ono-keo-co,  and  drew  his  knife  for  a  desperate  con- 
flict, resolved  to  carry  her  off,  or  perish  in  the  attempt.  He  did 
not  wait  for  Photobrand  to  approach,  but  ran  at  him,  making  a 
deadly  thrust  with  his  knife.  This  was  parried,  or  rather  dodged, 
and  so  great  was  his  impetus,  that  he  fell,  pitching  over  a  high 
rock,  head  foremost.  He  did  not  move,  after  he  fell,  and  when 
Photobrand  approached,  he  found  that  his  unfortunate  brother  had 
broken  his  neck,  and  was  dead. 

This  scene  had  been  witnessed  by  Brabant,  and  the  party  of 
hunters  and  trappers,  who  were  returning,  Ioad4i  with  game.  In 
a  cave,  far  up  the  Brandywine,  Brabant  had  discovered  his  wife, 
the  mother  of  Ono-keo-co,  which  she  had  made  her  home  since 
her  escape.  Great  was  the  rejoicing  of  Ono-keo-co,  when  she  re- 
vived from  her  fainting  fit,  to  find  that  her  father  and  mother  were 
both  restored  to  her,  after  years  of  separation. 

The  fate  of  Neomock  was  communicated  to  the  people,  but 
very  little  sympathy  was  felt,  as  he  was  an  outlaw,  and  had  been 
banished  in  disgrace.  Photobrand  and  Ono-keo-co  were  united, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  Indians,  and  great  pomp  and  cere- 
mony were  observed.  The  bride  was  adorned  with  all  the  glitter 
of  a  princess;  literally  covered  with  beads,  and  beautified  with  the 
most  gaudy  ribbands  and  feathers.  Tamenend  gave  her,  in  the 
name  of  her  father,  to  Photobrand,  and  then  blessed  them;  after 
which  were  commenced  feasting,  dancing,  and  various  games. 
Some  fire-water,  the  curse  of  the  Indians,  as  well  as  white  men, 
had  been  procured,  and  the  happy  Chief  became  so  extremely 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFOKD    BARD.  167 

happy,  that  it  was  necessary  to  carry  him  to  his  wigwam.    He  was 
superlatively  drunk. 

Brabant  became  a  great  man  among  the  Delawares,  and  Lander, 
forgiven  by  Photobrand,  became  domesticated  in  the  tribe.  Never, 
perhaps,  was  there  a  happier  pair  than  Photobrand  and  Ono-keo- 
co.  She  had  been  placed  among  the  Indians  at  so  early  an  age, 
that  their  customs  seemed  natural  and  familiar.  From  this  pair 
sprung  some  of  the  most  distinguished  warriors  and  statesmen 
that  ever  shed  renown  upon  the  tribe,  and,  though  the  Delawares 
have  dwindled  to  a  mere  handful,  comparatively,  yet  the  descend- 
ants of  Ono-keo-co  may  be  found  among  them  to  this  day.  It  is 
with  a  melancholy  regret,  a  sorrowful  feeling,  that  I  contemplate 
the  day,  not  far  distant,  when  the  last  Indian,  of  the  once  power- 
ful and  numerous  tribe  of  the  Delawares,  shall  gather  up  his  feet, 
and  go  down  to  the  tomb  of  his  ill-fated  race.  When  I  wander 
on  the  romantic  banks  of  the  Brandywine,  I  fancy  that  I  see  their 
dusky  forms  and  bark  canoes;  that  I  hear  the  death-song  on  the 
breeze ;  and  that  I  listen  to  the  war-whoop,  as  it  rings  through  the 
woods,  and  reverberates  among  the  far  off  rocks.  But  alas !  they 
are  not  there — those  sublime  solitudes  have  been  silent,  and  un- 
broken by  the  voice  of  the  Indian,  for  ages.  They  will  never  again 
be  trodden  by  the  lords  of  the  forest. 


Ifferftoti 


SHE  still  denied  the  passion  in  her  heart 

Even  to  herself,  tho'  fond  affection  there 

Had  long  been  deep  enshrined.     Her  modest  soul 

Shrunk  from  the  sweet  acknowledgment  and  oft, 

As  to  the  tree  her  letter  she  conveyed 

With  soft  and  stealthy  step,  a  blush  would  spread 

Upon  her  cheek,  when  even  she  thought  she  loved. 

One  day  she  went,  and  lo!  the  little  god 

Revealed  himself,  and  love  stood  there  confessed. 

The  tell-tale  boy,  with  finger  on  his  lip, 

And  bow  in  hand,  surveyed  her  for  a  while, 

And  then  with  sweet  provoking  smile,  he  said — 

"I've  caught  you  Miss,  at  last,  tho'  long  evaded — " 

And  a  swift  arrow  quivered  in  her  heart 


168  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARD. 


A  romantic  tale  of  ether  times,  in  the  manner  of  the  old  English  ballads. 

DEDICATED     TO     THE     FAIR     MRS.    E . 

IN  Paris'  noble  city,  in  the  days  of  olden  date, 

There  lived  a  proud  old  nobleman  in  all  the  pomp  of  state; 

He  trod  the  halls  of  grandeur,  for  great  wealth  had  he  in  store, 

A  lovely  daughter,  too,  he  had — what  could  he  wish  for  more  ? 

brT(nfe 

In  the  castle  of  her  father  did  this  blissful  beauty  dwell, 
And  her  Vassals  always  called  her  the  fair  Lady  Isabel; 
Her  eyes  were  dark  and  dazzling,  and  as  diamonds  were  bright, 
And  her  lips  were  red  as  roses,  when  they  open  to  the  light. 

Her  lofty  brow,  and  heav'nly  smile,  were  lovely  to  behold, 
Her  auburn  hair  in  clust'ring  curls  hung  down  like  grapes  of  gold, 
Upon  a  bosom  beautiful  as  bosom  e'er  could  be, 
That  rose  and  fell  like  billows  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 

Her  form  was  symmetry  itself,  e'en  lovely  as  her  face, 

In  every  airy  step  there  was  a  gleam  of  Grecian  grace; 

Her  very  hand  could  charm  the  soul,  her  shoe  had  pow'r  to  wound, 

For  such  a  lovely  little  foot  ne'er  trod  upon  the  ground. 

Unto  the  castle  halls  there  came  the  proudest  of  the  land, 

To  bow  before  her  beauty,  and  to  woo  her  haughty  hand; 

But  from  them  all  she  turn'd  away,  as  many  legends  tell,          "  .»» . 

For  Love  had  not  unlock 'd  the  heart  of  Lady  Isabel. 

The  silken  chain  had  never  yet  been  bound  around  law  heart, 
And  she  was  all  unused  to  tricks  of  treachery  and  art; 
She  was  no  cold  coquette,  yet  she  was  proud  as  Peries  are, 
And  therefore,  she  disdain 'd  to  hear  a  lover's  pressing  pray'r. 

When  many  a  wounded  heart  had  fled  away  from  her  cold  glance, 
There  came  an  humble  lover,  but  the  noblest  heart  in  France; 
A  soul  of  deathless  honor,  and  undying  truth  had  he, 
But  he  was  poor,  obscure  in  birth,  and  of  a  low  degree. 

She  prized  his  soul  of  honor,  but  she  scorn 'd  his  humble  birth,        .   , 
And  oft  she  felt  a  pity  that  she  could  not  own  his  worth;        (•  g, 
But  he  look'd  not  upon  her  wealth,  or  noble  house  of  old, 
He  prized  her  for  herself  alone;  and  not  for  paltry  gold. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILPORD    BARD.  169 

Twas  in  a  banquet  hall  he  first  beheld  her  fairy  form, 

Where  many  a  gay  enamor'd  knight  did  round  her  beauty  swarm; 

But  Ion  only  stood  and  gazed  upon  her  heavenly  charms, 

And,  while  he  gazed,  he  sigh'd  to  clasp  the  angel  in  his  arms. 

Her  dark  ^id  dazzling  eyes  of  light  in  softness  on  him  fell, 
And  madly  in  his  heart  he  loved  the  Lady  Isabel; 
Then  in  her  father's  castle  he  bow'd  down  before  her  feet, 
And  vow'd  the  love  he  bore  for  her  was  exquisitely  sweet. 

But  Lady  Isabel  was  cold,  his  worth  she  could  not  see, 
And  yet  she  felt  a  sorrow  that  he  was  of  low  degree; 
And  oft  she  doubted  what  he  said,  when  Ion  madly  swore, 
That  for  her  sake  he'd  sacrifice  the  very  life  he  bore. 

Still  at  her  side  she  suffer 'd  him  her  footsteps  to  attend  •, 
And  tho'  she  loved  him  not  she  look'd  upon  him  as  a  friend; 
Indeed  her  only  deep  regret  was  now  his  humble  birth, 
For  soon  she  felt  he  had  a  heart  the  noblest  on  the  earth. 

Oh !  Pride,  what  tyranny  is  thine!     How  many  a  heart  has  bled 
At  thy  decrees !     How  many  a  tear  on  thy  account  is  shed ! 
How  many  a  noble  soul,  by  thee,  is  doom'd  to  pine  in  woe, 
And  the  fruition  of  blest  tope,  on  earth  to  never  know. 

Still  Ion  woo'd  and  strove  to  win  the  Lady  Isabel, 
But  still  she  smiled  not  on  his  suit,  nor  broke  the  magic  spell; 
He  swore  by  all  the  stars  in  heav'n,  by  all  the  things  of  earth, 
If  she  would  wed  with  him  that  he  would  win  a  noble  birth. 

He  said  the  love  he  bore  for  her  no  tongue  on  earth  could  tell, 
More  than  the  wealth  of  worlds  he  loved  the  Lady  Isabel; 
That  for  her  sake  he'd  risk  his  life — her  wealth  he  did  not  crave, 
But  still  the  Lady  Isabel  in  doubt  an  answer  gave. 

One  day  withiiutfie  palace  of  the  Tuilleries  he  stray'd, 

And  sat  down  in  the  gallery  to  woo  the  doubting  maid; 

'Twas  o'er  the  king's  menagerie,  where  wild  beasts  were  in  charge, 

And,  in  the  ample  yard  below,  a  lion  roam'd  at  large. 

Still  Ion  pour'd  into  the  ear  of  Lady  Isabel, 

The  vows  of  his  undying  faith,  and  fond  affection's  spell; 

And  as  he  press 'd' her  small  white  hand,  and  gazed  into  her  eye, 

She  thought  that  she  his  love  would  test;  his  faith  for  once  would  try. 

f  And  as  he  breath 'd  to  her  again,  the  vow  so  true  and  strong, 
Thai  he  would  risk  his  life  for  her,  which  she  had  doubted  long; 
She  drop'd  a  diamond  ring  below,  just  where  the  lion  roved, 
And  beg'd  him  to  obtain  it,  if  he  still  as  truly  loved. 

22 


170  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORU    BARD. 

She  said  she  valued  it  above  all  other  gauds  of  earth , 
Her  mother  gave  it,  when  she  died;  therefore,  she  prized  its  worth; 
And  if  he'd  bring  it  back  to  her,  his  vows  she  would  believe; 
Nor  think,  in  aught  he  said,  that  he  intended  to  deceive. 

Brave  Ion  saw  the  object  of  this  cruel  sacrifice, 
And  soon  resolved  to  have  the  ring,  or  perish  'neath  her  eyes; 
His  soul  of  honor  sigh  'd  to  show  that  he  to  faith  was  true, 
And  up  he  rose,  and  took  her  hand,  and  bade  a  fond  adieu. 

Down  to  the  iron  gate  he  went,  all  fearless  as  before, 
And  enter'd  where  that  lion  large  sent  forth  an  awful  roar; 
He  now  desired  alone  to  prove,  and  prove  the  matter  well, 
That  he  had  never  breath 'd  false  vows  to  Lady  Isabel. 

The  lion  paw'd  the  earth,  prepared  to  leap  upon  his  prey, 
But  Ion  caught  his  eye  and  gazed,  as  on  he  took  his  way; 
The  beast,  astonish 'd,  backward  drew,  as  he  approach 'd  the  ring, 
Then,  creeping  forward,  still  pursued,  but  never  dared  to  spring. 

Still  in  his  eye  did  Ion  stare,  as,  backward,  he  withdrew, 
Till  thro'  the  gate  he  leap'd,  and  swung  the  massy  portal  to; 
The  Lady  Isabel  could  scarce  her  own  bright  eyes  believe, 
Tho'  now  she  loved,  and  never  more  could  think  he  would  deceive. 

His  faith  and  fond  affection  she  indeed  had  sorely  tried, 
And  now  she  did  regret  that  she  had  yielded  to  her  pride; 
She  saw  that  he  was  brave  and  true,  and  worthy  of  her  hand, 
And  vow'd,  in  her  own  bosom,  it  was  all  at  his  command. 

But,  ah  !  he  saw  that  she  possess 'd  a  heart  as  hard  as  stone, 
And  cruel,  too,  to  jeopardize  a  life  dear  as  her  own; 
He  wept  to  think  that  she,  whose  smiles  had  been  the  light  of  life, 
Was  all  unworthy  to  be  woo'd,  or  wedded  as  his  wife. 

Brave  Ion  bore  the  brilliant  ring  to  Lady  Isabel, 

And,  as  he  gazed  into  her  eyes,  he  breath'd  a  last  farewell; 

"A  heart  so  cruel  as  thine  own,  so  doubting,  too,"  he  said, 

"I  would  not  for  the  wealth  of  worlds,  and  all  thy  beauty,  wed." 

Twas  Ion's  time  to  triumph  now,  and  Isabel's  to  know 
The  pangs  of  slighted  love,  which  give  the  heart  the  keenest  woe; 
For  of  all  woes  that  life  endures,  none,  none  so  madly  burn, 
As  to  be  doom'd  to  love  and  find,  alas !  no  fond  return. 

She  clung  to  him  convulsively,  but  from  her  grasp  he  tore 
Himself  away,  and  sadly  sought  the  dim  and  distant  shore; 
Soon,  soon,  on  board  a  ship,  he  rode  upon  the  distant  main, 
And  ne'er  to  Lady  Isabel  did  he  return  again. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  171 

Despairing  in  her  love  for  him,  she  wanderW  o'er  the  wave, 
In  search  of  him  she  fondly  loved,  but  only  found  his  grave; 
Upon  his  tomb  she  found  these  words,  as  they  the  story  tell, 
"  Here  Ion  sleeps — he  died  for  love  of  Lady  Isabel." 

And  since  that  day,  at  evening's  hour,  she  wanders  on  the  shore;  , 
Gazing,  with  tearful  eyes  afar,  the  bounding  billows  o'er; 
Crazed  in  her  mind,  she  thinks,  upon  the  distant  wave,  she  sees 
The  ship  that  bears  her  Ion  back,  all  bending  to  the  breeze. 

But  never  more  shall  he  return — the  cruelty  she  gave, 
Froze  up  the  current  of  his  soul,  a  soul  so  nobly  brave; 
Nor  long  did  she  regret  his  fall — all  faded  in  her  bloom, 
She  pined  and  perish 'd,  and  she  sleeps  in  an  untimely  tomb. 

Take  warning,  oh!  ye  fair,  nor  tread  upon  affection's  flower, 
Lest,  when  ye  shall  repent,  ye  find  too  late  repentance'  hour; 
Spurn  not  a  noble  heart,  nor  let  pride  in  your  bosoms  dwell, 
Lest  ye  should  meet  the  fate  that  met  fair  Lady  Isabel. 


HIGH  on  the  crimson  car  of  fame, 

I  saw  the  victor  ride, 
He  came  from  far  thro'  flood  and  flame, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  pride; 
And  loud  the  war-trump  pierced  the  skies, 

All  hail  the  conqueror  comes, 
From  every  hill  let  shouts  arise, 

And  sound  ye  doubling  drums. 

The  crimson  crown  the  conqueror  wore, 

Waved  o'er  the  warrior's  head; 
But  his  right  arm  was  red  with  gore 

A  hundred  hearts  had  shed: 
A  hundred  hills  in  echoes  rung 

O'er  ocean's  sounding  surge; 
A  hundred  harps  awoke  and  sung 

Of  Europe's  dreadful  scourge. 

They  sung  the  fame  of  him  whose  scroll 

A  tide  of  tears  had  wet; 
They  sung  the  fame  of  him  whose  sou! 

Had- oft  in  murder  met; 


172  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

And  oft  had  spread  dark  midnight  o'er 
The  weeping  widow's  mind, 

And  wrote  her  grief  with  gushing  gore, 
Dread  vampire  of  mankind. 

Not  so  with  him  who  wore  the  plume 

When  fair  Columbia  bled;  , 

The  sun  that  set  on  Vernon's  tomb 

Smiled  on  the  mighty  dead; 
The  blood  that  dyed  Columbia's  land 

Was  paid  for  liberty — 
The  great,  the  good  and  glorious  band, 

The  western  world  set  free. 

The  scroll  of  him  who  sleeps  in  death, 

Gave  liberty  a  name; 
And  virtuous  heroes  then  had  birth, 

And  virtuous  valor,  fame — 
Gore  gushed  thro'  many  a  hundred  veins 

On  that  immortal  morn; 
Great  God!  'twas  then  were  rent  the  chains 

Of  millions  yet  unborn. 


WHILE  yet  I  slept,  in  soft  repose, 

The  trump  of  time  I  heard ! 
And  louder  still  at  every  close, 

Came  down  the  dreadful  word ! 
I  started  up  and  saw  the  sky 

Wrapped  in  a  robe  of  red ! 
An  angel  stood  and  woke  on  high 

The  trumpet  of  the  dead. 

I  asked  the  orient  orb  of  light 

From  whence  the  clangor  came; 
And  swift  it  rolled,  in  realms  of  night, 

Thro'  seas  of  frightful  flame! 
I  asked  the  pale  moon  if  she  knew 

Why  thus  the  angel  stood; 
She  answered  not,  but  from  my  view 

Went  down  in  waves  of  blood. 


' 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  173 

I  asked  the  burning  stars,  and  they 

Fell  from  their  orbits  high ! 
I  saw  the  lightning  o'er  me  play, 

And  flame  along  the  sky ! 
1  asked  the  angry  ocean  too 

Why  she  in  rage  did  roar; 
And  quick  she  rolled  before  my  view, 

Her  millions  to  the  shore ! 

And  then  I  saw  with  dazzled  eyes, 

A  flaming  chariot  driven ! 
The  wheels  with  thunder  shook  the  skies 

And  rocked  the  halls  of  heaven ! 
I  asked  the  clouds  from  whence  He  came, 

O'er  whom  the  red  flames  curled; 
They  cried  JEHOVAH  is  his  name, 

He  comes  to  judge  the  world. 

I  saw  him  seize  a  flaming  brand 

And  fire  creation  o'er; 
The  sky,  the  ocean,  and  the  land, 

All  mingled  in  the  roar! 
And  at  the  last  loud  trumpet's  sound, 

I  woke  with  one  wild  scream; 
A  poor  musquito  then  I  found, 

Had  caused  my  dreadful  dream. 


THE  tongue  of  woman  charms  the  soul, 

With  all  the  strains  of  love; 
Tis  like  the  lyre  whose  numbers  roll, 

In  yonder  halls  above: 
And  0,  it  hath  a  charm  to  bind, 

Even  when  it  aims  the  dart; 
It  is  the  echo  of  the  mind, 

The  tell-tale  of  the  heart. 

The  eye  of  woman  sheds  a  ray, 

To  gild  the  gloom  of  woe; 
To  man  it  lights  a  constant  day — 

Of  happiness  below; 
It  is  the  lamp  of  life  and  light, 

The  source  of  joy  refined; 
It  is  the  star  of  sorrow's  night, 

The  mirror  of  the  mind. 


0f 


'•'  Hereby  hangs  a  tale— I'll  tell  it." — SRAKSPEARE. 

FEW  years  ago  I  boarded  in  a  very  pleasant 
family  in  Baltimore,  in  the  social  society  of 
which  I  spent  some  of  the  happiest  days  of  my 
life.  Gaiety,  cheerfulness  and  enjoyment  were 
the  objects  of  the  circle  that  surrounded  me, 
and  it  was  peculiarly  grateful  after  a  day  devoted 
to  hard  study,  to  unbend  my  mind  amid  bright 
eyes,  rosy  faces,  and  sylph-like  forms.  Among 
the  fair  portion  of  the  boarders  (and  it  is  well 
known  to  the  reader  that  I  am  particularly  par- 
tial to  the  society  of  the  fair  sex)  were  two 
Spanish  ladies,  and  a  lady  from  the  palmy  plains 
of  the  South,  to  whom,  in  friendship,  I  became 
particularly  attached.  The  deep,  dark,  dazzling 
eyes  of  the  Spanish  ladies  seemed  to  have  a 
Mesmeric  influence,  for  when  they  were  once 
fixed  upon  a  susceptible  young  man  he  stood 
fascinated  by  a  spell  or  charm,  as  does  the  bird  when  it  comes 
within  the  magic  influence  of  the  eye  of  the  serpent. 

I  have  mentioned  these  ladies,  however,  only  incidentally.  The 
heroine  of  my  story  is  the  lady  from  the  sunny  South.  If  a  beauti- 
ful creature,  ever  walked  this  earth,  she  was  one.  She  was  a 
charming  brunette,  of  the  middle  stature,  her  form  moulded  to 
exquisite  symmetry;  indeed  so  exquisite,  that  neither  Michael 
Angelo  nor  Canova  could  ever  have  rivalled  in  marble  its  graceful 
outlines.  She  was  like  Milton's  Eve — 

"  Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  Heaven  in  her  eye, 
In  every  gesture,  dignity  and  love." 

Her  eyes  were  dark  and  brilliant  as  the  diamond  set  in  jet; 
large,  melting,  and  melancholy,  and  her  black  hair  hung  in  clus- 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  175 

tering  curls  down  her  swan-like  neck.  Her  cheeks  were  red  as 
the  lotus  on  the  rivers  of  the  east,  but  her  mouth — ye  gods!  it 
was  chisseled  with  a  beauty  of  form  and  expression  that  far  ex- 
celled that  of  the  famed  Venus  de  Medicis. 

But  enough  of  description.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  she  was 
generally  considered  extremely  beautiful,  for  every  look  was  lan- 
guage, and  every  lineament  was  love.  It  is  necessary  to  observe, 
that  her  intellect  was  of  a  high  order;  she  was  very  imaginative, 
and  had  written  some  very  beautiful  poems,  though  she  did  not 
pay  much  devotion  to  the  Muses,  as  she  was  young,  beautiful, 
and  giddy,  and  fond  of  the  beau  monde. 

Many  of  the  dashing  dandies  of  Baltimore  fluttered,  like  butter- 
flies, round  the  lovely  flower,  but  her  heart  remained  untouched. 
The  winged  arrow  of  love  had  never  entered  her  bosom ;  she  was 
still  the  same  gay  and  giddy  creature. 

In  the  city  I  had  a  particular  friend,  who  I  knew  was,  like  my- 
self, a  passionate  admirer  of  female  beauty,  and  devotedly  attached 
to  female  society.  Henry  Darnley  was  an  uncommonly  handsome 
man,  and  I  resolved,  as  Cupid  had  spent  all  his  fury  on  me  in 
earlier  years,  to  introduce  him  to  the  celebrated  beauty,  Isabel 
Summerville,  the  most  agreeable  lady  in  her  mind  and  manners 
that  I  have  ever  met. 

"Come,  Henry,"  said  I,  one  evening  at  the  Museum,  "you  have 
seen  all  the  curiosities  here  a  hundred  times,  come  along  with  me, 
and  I  will  show  you  one  you  have  never  seen,  and  one  upon  which 
you  will  never  grow  tired  of  gazing." 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Henry,  with  a  careless  air. 

"One  of  the  most  beautiful  ladies  you  have  ever  seen." 

"Then  by  Jupiter,"  he  exclaimed,  seizing  my  arm,  "I'll  go  to 
Halifax  for  a  sight  like  that." 

As  we  walked  down  to  the  street  in  which  I  boarded,  I  gave 
him  a  glowing  description  of  Isabel,  until  his  imagination  was 
fired  with  her  charms.  But  when  he  entered  the  parlor,  and  she 
stood  revealed  before  him  in  the  full  blaze  of  her  beauty,  he  felt 
that  his  fancy  had  not  done  justice  to  her  loveliness.  Isabel  and 
Henry  were  both  polished  in  their  manners,  communicative  and 
easy  in  conversation.  The  Spanish  ladies  having  retired,  I  left 
them  together,  and  that  evening  a  mutual  regard  sprung  up  be- 
tween them;  a  regard  that  ripened  into  devoted  affection,  for  they 
seemed  fitted  for  each  other  by  nature  and  education. 

In  a  short  time  after  this  meeting  Henry  resolved  to  take  board 
in  the  house  for  the  sake  of  my  society,  but  Isabel,  the  fair  Isabel, 


176  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

was  the  centre  of  attraction.  It  was  for  the  sake  of  seeing  her  fre- 
quently every  day  that  he  was  so  willing  to  change  his  residence. 
And  there  he  did  see  her  every  day,  and  not  many  months  elapsed 
ere  they  were  betrothed  in  marriage,  and  a  more  graceful  couple 
never  were  destined  to  stand  at  the  altar.  Isabel  became  entirely 
changed  by  the  feelings  which  had  been  awakened  in  her  heart. 
Instead  of  the  wild  romping  gaiety  of  former  days  she  became 
sedate  and  thoughtful,  and  instead  of  wandering  in  search  of  so- 
ciety and  amusement  she  remained  in  solitude,  or  spent  her  mo- 
ments in  the  presence  of  him  who  had  won  her  affections,  and 
who  had  become  all  the  world  to  her.  I  have  never  in  all  my 
wanderings  seen  two  persons  so  devotedly  attached,  and  who 
seemed  so  willing  to  sacrifice  every  thing  to  each  other's  happiness. 
The  reason  was,  there  was  a  communion  of  soul. 

Isabel  Summerville  was  the  only  heir  and  orphan  daughter  of  a 
rich  planter  in  Louisiana,  and  having  nothing  to  bind  her  to  the 
South,  had  travelled  in  company  with  an  old  gentleman,  a  friend 
of  her  father,  to  see  the  country,  and  being  pleased  with  the 
manners  of  the  people  of  Baltimore,  who  are  famed  for  their  ur- 
banity and  familiarity,  she  resolved  to  spend  some  time  in  that  city, 
little  dreaming  that  she  would  there  first  fall  into  the  dream  of  love. 

Henry  Darnley  was  a  young  gentleman  of  some  property,  which 
he  invested  in  various  ways.  He  had  an  interest  in  the  new 
steamboat,  Medora,  which  had  recently  been  finished,  and  was  to 
go  down  the  bay  on  a  trip  as  a  trial  of  her  speed,  as  it  was  boasted 
that  she  was  superior  to  any  other. 

On  the  day  before  that  on  which  the  marriage  was  to  take  place, 
Isabel  was  sitting  in  a  large-armed  rocking-chair  in  the  parlor. 
Around  her  were  strewn  the  paraphernalia  of  her  wedding-dress, 
for  she  had  that  morning  been  visited  by  milliners,  mantua-makers, 
and  merchant's  clerks,  innumerable.  She  laid  down  a  gorgeous 
cap,  covered  with  the  most  costly  laces,  threw  her  finely  formed 
head  back  on  the  chair,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  lost  in  reverie. 
She  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  the  morrow  ;  of  the  many  happy 
days  she  was  to  enjoy  with  the  man  of  her  choice,  in  the  language 
of  Dr.  Young, 

"Sinking  from  thought  to  thought  a  vast  profound." 

Suddenly  the  door  was  opened,  and  Henry  Darnley  entered. 

"Dearest  Isabel,"  said  he,  "the  speed  of  the  steamboat  Medora 
is  to  be  tried  to-day,  and  as  I  am  interested,  I  am  going  on  board. 
I  shall  not  leave  you  long." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  177 

Isabel  softly  pressed  his  hand  between  both  of  hers,  and  he  gaily 
left  the  room.  In  the  course  of  an  hour  a  loud  explosive  sound, 
as  of  an  earthquake,  shook  the  city  and  startled  the  beautiful 
Isabel.  In  a  few  minutes  she  heard  the  citizens  tramping  ra- 
pidly on  the  street,  and  flying  to  and  fro  with  the  awful  cry — 
"The  steamboat  Medora  has  just  blown  up,  and  nearly  all  on 
board  are  killed,  wounded  or  scalded."  She  leaped  from  her 
chair,  ran  to  the  window,  in  wild  affright,  and  as  she  beheld  the 
thousands  of  anxious  citizens  rushing  to  the  wharf  to  see  whose 
friends  were  killed,  and  as  the  recollection  that  the  last  words 
Henry  had  spoken  were,  that  he  was  going  on  board  the  boat 
rushed  upon  her  mind,  she  staggered  back  to  the  chair,  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  horrid  scene,  and 
in  the  attempt  to  breathe  a  prayer  for  his  safety,  she  fainted  and 
remained  insensible  some  time.  When  consciousness  was  restored, 
she  heard  the  tramping  of  thousands  of  feet  on  the  pave  returning 
from  the  awful  scene  where  so  many  had  been  blown  to  atoms,  and 
she  heard  the  groans  of  the  dying,  as  their  friends  were  bearing 
them  home,  some  praying  for  death,  while  others  were  begging 
their  friends  to  put  a  period  to  their  existence  and  their  sufferings. 

Isabel,  in  a  perfect  state  of  delirium,  arose  and  staggered  to  the 
window,  though  she  scarcely  knew  whither  she  was  going  or  for 
what  purpose.  Her  ideas  were  confused,  and  all  she  knew  was 
that  the  next  day  was  her  wedding-day,  and  that  he  who  was  the 
idol  of  her  heart  was  on  the  board  of  the  ill-fated  Medora.  Her 
eyes  wandered  with  a  vacant  stare  up  and  down  South  street, 
which  is  the  great  thoroughfare  to  and  from  the  wharf,  and  thou- 
sands were  moving,  some  weeping  in  subdued  grief,  while  others 
were  exclaiming  in  the  bitter  accents  of  despair.  She  saw  fathers 
and  mothers  following  the  pale  corpse  of  a  darling  and  devoted 
son,  who  had  promised  to  be  the  staff  and  stay  of  their  declining 
years;  and  she  beheld  a  family  of  children,  clinging  to  the  body 
of  a  dying  father,  as  he  was  borne  along  upon  a  litter.  Her 
jp; .  head  reeled,  as  reels  one  who  is  inebriated. — She  gazed  again 
down  the  street,  to  see  if  she  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  Henry 
amid  the  vast  multitude,  while  his  last  words  at  parting  rung  in 
her  ears — "I  shall  not  leave  you  long." 

Still  she  saw  them  bear  along  the  dead  and  dying — still  the  cry 
of  distress  reached  her  ear  from  every  part  of  the  city,  which  was 
now  wrapped  in  universal  gloom.  Many  of  the  noblest  citizens, 
who  had  gone  forth  in  the  morning  full  of  life  and  hope,  had  been 
doomed  to  perish  on  board  that  ill-fated  boat;  the  mangled  remains 
23 


178  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

of  some  of  whom  could  not  be  recognized  by  the  features,  while 
others  were  left  to  groan  in  anguish  and  despair. 

Still  did  the  almost  frantic  Isabel  continue  to  gaze  down  the 
street  to  catph  a  glimpse  of  Henry.  But  in  vain — he  came  not. 
Corpse  after  corpse  was  carried  by  and  still  Henry  did  not  appear. 
Urged  at  times  to  despair,  she  seized  her  bonnet  and  resolved  to 
fly  to  the  dreadful  scene  of  destruction;  but  what  could  a  delicate 
lady  do  hemmed  in  by  such  an  immense  mass  of  beings  as  crowded 
the  street?  She  looked  again,  and  found  that  only  a  body  at  long 
intervals  was  carried  by.  Hope  dawned  upon  her  mind. 

"My  Henry  must  be  safe,"  she  cried,  "or  they  would  have 
brought  him  home  before  this  hour." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  died  away  upon  her  lips,  than  the  wild 
and  appalling  cry  at  the  door  met  her  ear — 

« 
"Make  room  for  the  dead — stand  aside!" 

« 

She  convulsively  looked  below,  as  the  wind  swept  the  handker- 
chief from  his  face.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  bruised  and 
bleeding  brow,  and  as  they  bore  the  body  into  the  passage,  she 
recognized  the  once  beautiful,  though  now  blackened  features,  of 
Henry  Darnley,  who  the  very  next  day  was  to  become  her  happy 
husband.  A  film  came  over  her  eyes;  a  dizziness  in  her  head; 
she  staggered  across  the  room  towards  the  door,  and  fell  swooning 
across  a  chair. 

And  oh!  ye  fair  ones,  who  among  you  would  have  been  less 
affected  at  such  an  hour  and  such  a  scene?  There  lay  her  splen- 
did bridal  dress  beside  her  chair,  made  more  splendid  at  the  earnest 
request  of  Henry,  that  she  might  appear  at  her  wedding  in  more 
brilliant  attire  than  her  maids  or  any  of  the  guests.  There  lay 
the  very  mementos  of  him  whom  her  soul  adored,  but  who  now 
lay  in  the  next  room  cold  and  stiff  in  death.  Such  a  scene  was 
calculated  to  touch  any  heart,  but  much  more  one  like  hers,  so  full 
of  melting  sensibility  and  love. 

In  the  course  of  an  hour  she  seemed  to  revive,  but  Isabel,  the 
lovely  Isabel,  was  no  longer  the  same  being.  The  fire  that  once 
flashed  from  her  brilliant  eyes  had  departed,  and  a  cold,  dead, 
vacant  gaze  alone  remained.  The  cheek  and  lip  that  once  rivalled 
the  rose  had  lost  their  bloom,  and  she  looked  more  like  the  spirit 
of  the  beauty  that  she  had  been,  than  the  reality.  Reason  seemed 
reeling  upon  her  throne  ready  to  tumble  into  ruins.  She  wan- 
dered from  room  to  room,  and  examined  with  curious  gaze  every 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  179 

memento  of  him  who  a  little  while  ago  was  full  of  life  and  beauty, 
but  was  now  prostrate  in  the  arms  of  death.  A  cold  shudder 
passed  over  her  frame,  and  a  shower  of  tears  succeeded  it,  when- 
ever she  passed  the  room  where  his  unfortunate  body  lay. 

Poor  Isabel !  the  day-dream  of  her  happiness  had  departed  like 
the  mist  of  the  morning — the  brilliant  anticipations  she  had  cher- 
ished as  the  charm  of  her  existence,  were  gone  like  the  earthly 
hopes  of  happy  childhood — the  fond  affection  she  had  nurtured 
as  a  delicate  flower  had  faded,  and  she  found  herself  a  wreck  on 
life's  dark  tide;  her  happiness  in  one  ill-fated  hour  blighted;  her 
hopes  blasted;  and  her  heart  the  solitary  tomb  of  love.  Oh!  ye, 
whose  affections  have  never  been  crushed  in  the  hour  of  consum- 
mation— ye,  who  have  never  seen  your  hopes  take  wing,  like 
summer  birds  for  Southern  skies,  little  do  ye  know  of  that  utter 
desolation  of  heart  which,  now  prostrated  the  once  gay,  volatile 
and  fascinating  Isabel.  It  has  been  truly  said  by  a  celebrated 
philosopher,  that  Nature  always  deals  in  extremes ;  that  the  most 
volatile  and  lively  people,  when  cast  down  by  misfortune,  are  the 
most  miserable.  This  aphorism  is  exemplified  among  the  French. 
They  are  the  most  volatile  people  on  earth,  and  yet  there  are  more 
suicides  among  them  than  in  any  other  nation.  The  English  are 
more  equable  in  their  temperament. 

So  it  was  with  poor  Isabel  Summerville ;  she  was  either  extremely 
happy  or  extremely  miserable,  and  indeed  in  the  present  instance, 
how  could  she  be  any  other  than  the  latter?  She  had  seen  her 
heart's  holiest  hopes  decay  in  the  morning  of  her  young  existence, 
and  the  blossoms  of  her  first  love  perish  in  an  untimely  tomb. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  the  funeral  of  Henry  was  to 
take  place.  At  eleven  o'clock  the  friends  of  the  deceased  and 
the  invited  public  were  assembling,  and  soon  the  large  parlor,  and 
the  room  where  the  corpse  lay,  were  filled  with  persons  in  deep 
mourning,  many  of  whom,  through  curiosity,  had  been  attracted 
there  by  the  fame  of  Isabel's  beauty,  for  Henry  and  herself,  when 
seen  on  the  street,  had  been  called  the  handsomest  and  most 
graceful  pair  in  the  city. 

The  reader  may  imagine  the  astonishment  of  the  assembled 
multitude,  when  Isabel  came  down  into  the  room  where  the  corpse 
was,  not  dressed  in  mourning,  but  arrayed  in  all  the  gorgeousness  of 
her  bridal  dress,  with  her  costly  cap  and  tiara  of  diamonds  upon  her 
head.  She  gazed  around  the  room  with  a  vacant  stare,  while  the 
crowd  moved  away  from  her  with  that  instinctive  dread  that  some 
people  have  when  approached  by  a  deranged  person.  The  lids  of 


180  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

the  head  of  the  coffin  were  thrown  back  upon  their  hinges,  and  the 
face  of  the  corpse  revealed  only  covered  with  a  fold  of  the  snowy 
shroud.  She  advanced  to  the  side  of  the  splendid  coffin,  and 
taking  hold  of  one  of  the  silver  handles,  knelt  down  beside  it  in 
the  attitude  of  prayer,  though  her  wild  eyes  wandered  backwards 
and  forwards  from  one  end  of  the  coffin  to  the  other.  During 
this  scene,  which  caused  many  to  shudder  with  apprehension,  not 
a  tear  was  in  her  eye,  and  not  a  sigh  upon  her  lip.  The  fountain 
of  feeling  seemed  to  have  been  dried  up  by  the  excess  of  grief. 
She  slowly  arose  from  her  knees ;  turned  back  the  shroud ;  and, 
clasping  her  hands  in  an  attitude  of  anguish,  stood  for  some  time 
gazing  with  so  ghastly  a  countenance,  that  some  of  the  younger 
persons  near  her  were  frightened  and  moved  to  another  part  of 
the  room.  She  placed  her  hand  upon  his  cold  brow,  as  if  musing 
upon  the  mutability  of  human  life,  and  ^he  terrific  ravages  of  death, 
while  her  bosom  heaved  with  tumultuous  emotions.  At  length 
she  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  a  shrill  accent — "It  is,  it  is  my 
Henry,  oh!  basely,  basely  murdered!"  and  fell  across  the  body  in 
a  partial  state  of  insensibility. 

The  undertaker  now  entered  to  screw  up  the  coffin,  and  en- 
deavored softly  to  lead  her  from  the  room,  but  she  clung  to  the 
dead  body  and  steadily  refused  to  leave  it.  Her  hands  were 
gently  unloosed  and  she  was  led  to  a  chair.  She  watched  the 
undertaker  as  he  screwed  down  the  lidaf  she  saw  them  lift  the 
coffin  from  the  table  to  bear  it  to  the  hearse  on  the  street;  she 
saw  the  mourners  moving  onward,  and  tearing  the  splendid  cap 
and  tiara  of  diamonds  from  her  head ;  she  rushed  to  the  stairway 
to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the  coffin.  She  leaned  over  the  banis- 
ters, and  gazed  along  the  passage,  until  she  saw  the  coffin  depo- 
sited in  the  hearse  and  heard  the  carriage  wheels  rolling  over  the 
street.  The  thought  that  she  should  see  her  Henry  no  more 
flashed  upon  her  disordered  brain,  and  she  uttered,  as  she  fell,  one 
piercing  scream  that  rung  through  the  whole  house. 

';  For  heaven's  sake,  Miss  Isabel,"  I  exclaimed,  throwing  the  last 
novel  I  had  been  reading  nearly  out  of  the  window,  "  what  is  the 
matter?  have  you  been  dreaming?" 

"Oh!  yes,  sir,"  said  she,  "I  could  not  sleep  last  night,  and  this 
morning  falling  asleep  in  my  chair,  I  have  had  a  dream  of  love." 

I  fell  back  in  my  chair,  and  gave  myself  up  to  convulsive  laughter 
at  the  ludicrous  scene.  At  the  sound  of  the  scream  the  two 
Spanish  ladies,  who  were  deeply  absorbed  in  reading  Cervantes, 
had  leaped  from  (heir  chairs  into  the  middle  of  the  parlor,  and 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  181 

were  shouting  at  the  top  of  their  voices,  "0  los  Dios!  0  los 
Dios!"  The  screaming  and  shouting  brought  the  family,  servants 
and  apprentices  in  the  shop  below,  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 

Notwithstanding  the  Dream  of  Love,  I  was  at  the  wedding, 
next  day,  of  the  beautiful  Isabel  Summerville,  and  a  lovelier  bride 
was  never  led  to  the  altar. 

NOTE  — The  explosion  of  the  steamboat  Medora,  the  cause  of  the  dream, 
had  occurred  nearly  a  week  before. 


lentjj  of 


HE  sleeps  in  the  cradle  of  freedom  and  glory, 
And  the  wings  of  the  eagle  o'ershadow  his  grave; 

His  deeds  are  renowned  on  the  pages  of  story, 
Coequal  with  fame,  and  the  fate  of  the  brave. 

While  the  surge  of  Champlain,  in  its  wild  murmur  roaring, 
Shall  continue  to  sparkle  and  foam  in  the  sun, 

So  long  shall  his  fame,  still  exalted,  be  soaring, 
And  brighten  still  brighter  as  ages  shall  run. 

At  his  shrine  shall  the  hero  bow  down  in  devotion, 
When  the  tempests,  of  war  in  destruction  shall  rave; 

When  the  cannon  of  carnage  shall  wake  the  deep  ocean, 
And  the  flag  of  Amej-ica's  triumph  shall  wave. 

From  his  ashes  shall  rise,  like  a  new-born  creation, 

The  heirs  of  true  valor  and  virtue  alone; 
The  heroes  that  shine  in  the  lists  of  a  nation, 

Like  MacDonough  in  peace  and  in  war  ever  shone. 

He  sleeps  on  the  cold  and  comfortless  pillow, 

Where  silence  and  darkness  their  vigils  long  hold; 

On  the  trident  of  Neptune  beneath  the  dark  billow, 
His  name  is  inscribed  in  bright  letters  of  gold. 

In  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen  long,  long  shall  linger, 
The  memory  of  him  who  has  fought  for  their  fame; 

The  poet  shall  lend  to  the  harp  the  soft  finger, 
And  Delaware  boast  of  his  generous  name. 

He  has  gone  to  the  land  of  the  saints  and  the  sages, 
The  land  of  the  good,  and  the  blest,  and  the  brave; 

His  fame  is  inscribed  on  eternity's  pages  — 

His  day  brightly  dawns  on  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 


182  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


inmhtir  of  (lob. 


HE  rides  on  the  clouds,  where  the  eagle  is  soaring, — 
Where  Franklin's  bold  hand  wields  the  lightning  afar; 

Where  the  thunder  of  heaven  is  awfully  roaring, 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  wheeling  His  beautiful  car ! 

When  the  storm,  like  a  maniac,  moans  o'er  the  ocean, 
And  night's  sable  mantle  envelopes  the  skies, 

All  Nature,  before  Him,  bows  down  in  devotion, 
And  the  gods  of  the  deep  to  His  chariot  rise ! 

High  on  the  frame  of  the  universe  standing, 
His  eye  glances  thro'  the  deep  regions  of  space; 

With  the  voice  of  His  power  the  planets  commanding, 
All  glowing  in  glory  that  beams  from  His  face ! 

His  name,  on  the  skies,  is  in  brilliancy  beaming, 
Nor  the  scathe  of  the  lightning  can  tarnish  its  glare, 

While  the  stars  thro'  the  trackless  area  are  streaming, 
It  shall  shine  in  its  beauty — its  radiancy  there ! 

He  is  Monarch  of  worlds,  and  of  wealth,  and  of  power, 
He  can  shake  the  foundations  of  Nature,  or  sweep 

In  promiscuous  ruin  creation's  bold  tower, 
And  re-thunder  the  dreadful  abyss  of  the  deep ! 

His  voice  is  the  storm,  'tis  the  bellowing  thunder, 
That  rolls  in  its  revelry  down  the  dark  skies; 

And  His  glance  is  the  lightning  that  strikes  us  with  wonder, 
As  it  frightfully  flames  from  His  radiant  eyes  ! 

His  throne  is  the  heavens,  His  footstool  the  planets, 
The  sun  His  bright  lamp,  and  His  residence,  space; 

The  sky  is  His  crown,  and  the  stars  are  His  coronets, 
Love  His  best  treasure,  His  charity,  grace ! 

He  rides  on  the  clouds,  where  the  eagle  is  soaring, — 
Where  Rittenhouse  roves  with  the  silvery  star; 

Where  the  thunder  of  heaven  is  awfully  roaring, 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  wheeling  His  beautiful  car. 


WRITTEN  BY  REQUEST,  ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY. 


HE  brilliant  orb  which  rises  on  this  memorable 
jmorn,  shedding  light  upon  a  benighted  world, 
i  is  a  type  of  that  more  glorious  luminary,  which 
(arose  in  beauty  on  Bethlehem,  and  went  down 
'  in  blood  on  Calvary.  Behold  the  infant  Saviour ! 
Behold  the  herald  of  heaven,  and  the  harbinger 
of  hope  and  future  happiness !  Behold  the  great 
emancipation  of  a  wicked  world  !  Methinks  I 
see  the  shouting  shepherds  flying  to  and  fro, 
with  the  glad  tidings  that  a  child  is  born  whose 
virtues  shall  bequeath  to  them  the  rich  inheri- 
tance of  hereafter.  Methinks  I  see  the  admiring 
multitude,  crowding  round  the  manger  to  catch 
a  glimpse  of  that  glorious  being,  who  had  come 
into  the  world,  not  to  propagate  his  gospel  like 
Mahomet,  with  the  sword,  but  with  his  blood  to 
baptize  all  nations. 

What  a  destiny  is  his  !  Born  in  a  land  of  peace,  and  nursed  in 
the  lap  of  persecution,  we  behold  him  at  one  time  the  pride  of 
the  pulpit,  adorned  with  all  the  dignity  of  a  man,  and  with  all  the 
glory  of  a  God,  every  knee  bowing  before  him,  and  every  heart 
paying  out  its  homage;  while  at  another,  we  see  him  the  scorn, 
the  scoff  and  mirth  of  the  multitude,  his  head  covered  with  a 
crown  of  thorns,  his  temple  a  dungeon,  and  his  future  destiny  a 
lingering  ignominious  death  on  the  cross.  But  he  trembled  not 
at  the  taunts  of  the  multitude,  or  the  tyranny  of  the  magistrate. 
Magnanimous  amid  the  ruin  that  surrounded  him,  he  stood  the 
hope  of  this  world,  and  the  harbinger  of  a  better;  welcoming  the 
bitter  cup  that  contained  the  price  of  universal  emancipation. 
He  crouched  not  at  the  footstool  of  power,  nor  fed  and  fattened 
on  the  plundered  property  of  the  people.  But,  he  came  as  a 


184  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

father  to  the  fatherless,  a  pattern  to  the  rich,  a  pastor  to  the  poor; 
as  a  balm  to  the  blind,  and  a  beacon  to  the  benighted  and  forlorn. 
In  a  word,  he  came  to  save  the  sinner,  and  redeem  the  world. 
The  accumulated  calumnies  of  the  wicked,  and  the  worthless  ar- 
rows of  envy,  and  the  daggers  of  defamation  fell  harmless  against 
the  breast-plate  of  his  piety;  and  the  world's  passions,  instead  of 
stirring  him  to  revenge,  only  roused  him  to  the  exercise  of  virtue, 
and  to  the  promulgation  of  the  gospel  which  he  came  to  establish. 
A  man  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  he  appealed  not  to  the  passions  and 
prejudices  of  the  multitude.  He  offered  not  his  blessing  to  the  Pa- 
gan priest  as  the  pay  of  his  apostacy  from  the  faith  of  his  fathers. 
But  he  taught  a  morality  and  religion  fairer  than  the  pages  of  So- 
crates and  Seneca;  a  doctrine  fraught  with  the  noblest  precepts, 
and  a  practice  that  ever  served  as  a  model  for  man.  He  sought  not 
to  dazzle  the  imaginations  of  men  with  the  splendor  of  eloquence 
or  the  pomp  of  philosophy.  He  drew  not  his  morality  from  the 
temples  of  Grecian  genius,  or  his  inspiration  from  the  tombs  of 
Roman  learning.  Superior  to  all,  and  opposed  to  that  system 
from  whence  the  Kantian  philosophy  sprung,  he  breathed  but  the 
inspired  spirit  of  his  father. 

What  an  object  of  admiration!  With  all  the  grandeur  of  a 
God,  and  with  all  the  mind  of  a  man;  at  one  moment  refuting  the 
learned  doctors  in  the  temple,  at  another  mingling  with  and  com- 
forting his  fellow-creatures  in  wretchedness  and  rags.  To  him 
the  petty  distinctions  of  mankind  were  nought  but  mockery;  alike 
to  him  was  the  pomp  of  earthly  power,  and  the  pride  of  penury; 
alike  to  him  the  rags  of  the  beggar,  and  the  crimson  robes  of  roy- 
alty; alike  to  him  the  grandeur  of  wealth,  the  boast  of  birth,  the 
mansion  of  the  monarch,  and  the  cottage  of  the  plebeian;  alike  to 
him  the  humble  and  the  haughty;  alike  to  him  the  pompous  and 
the  poor.  In  the  spirit  of  his  divinity,  he  dashed  the  golden 
crown  from  the  head  of  guilty  greatness,  bade  tyrants  tremble  on 
their  thrones,  and  drew  from  the  solitude  of  poverty  the  apostles 
of  his  church  and  his  gospel.  He  was  no  titled  tyrant,  or  imagi- 
nary monarch,  tricked  out  in  gaudy  magnificence,  to  dazzle  and 
degrade  a  horde  of  slaves,  pleased  with  the  chains  that  rattled  on 
the  limbs  of  liberty.  Far  different  was  his  glory  and  his  grandeur! 
Upon  his  manly  lips,  hung  the  hallowed  accents  of  religion  and 
gospel  law;  his  regal  robes  were  innocence  and  peace;  his  wea- 
pon was  his  Word,  and  his  throne  and  sceptre  were  the  hearts  and 
hopes  of  men.  With  the  light  of  faith,  he  dissipated  the  illusive 
landscape  of  human  error,  and  with  the  sword  of  truth,  he  hurled 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  185 

to  the  dust  the  splendid  pantheon  of  Pagan  idolatry.  The  dark- 
ness which  surrounded  their  golden  gods,  and  their  ritual,  was 
dissipated  by  the  dawn  of  that  day  which  shed  brilliancy  and 
beauty  on  the  purity  and  practice  of  piety.  In  the  urbanity  of  his 
benevolence,  he  led  the  van  of  victorious  emancipation!  He 
decked  his  brow  with  the  garland  of  glory,  with  the  wreath  of 
religion,  and  filled  his  army  with  the  soldiers  of  every  sect  and 
every  clime.  But  he  forged  no  fetters.  He  lit  no  fires  for  those 
who  refused  to  bow  to  his  decrees  and  obey  his  decalogue.  Un- 
like the  monarchs  of  the  earth,  he  pleased  not  the  eye  of  the 
world  with  the  pomp  of  his  power;  and  yet,  at  the  magic  of  his 
word,  the  mighty  waves  of  the  ocean  in  its  anger  were  stayed, 
and  while  it  obeyed  him,  he  walked  upon  its  surface  with  a  dignity 
that  adorned  him,  and  a  faith  that  never  failed. 

The  hardened  Judas,  actuated  by  the  gluttony  of  gold,  be- 
trayed the  Redeemer  of  mankind.  How  short  was  the  transi- 
tion from  the  eradle  to  the  cross  !  Behold  the»  insulted  Saviour  of 
the  world  rudely  beaten,  and  basely  scourged !  Behold  him  on 
the  cross,  gashed  with  gushing  wounds,  and  suffering  all  the  ago- 
nies of  outraged  humanity!  With  all  the  unbent  and  unbroken 
spirit  of  a  God,  now  commending  his  soul  to  his  Father,  and  now 
calling  for  mercy  on  those  who  were  cruelly  baptizing  him  in  blood. 
He  was  indeed  the  great  martyr  of  mankind,  for  the  first  drop  of 
gore  that  gushed  from  his  wounds,  sealed  that  redemption  which 
the  prophets  had  foretold,  and  his  death  fulfilled.  The  mighty 
multitude  grew  giddy,  while  they  gazed  and  glutted  their  senses 
on  the  suffering  of  an  expiring  Saviour.  There  were  none  but  a 
few  followers  to  vindicate  his  violated  honor.  Behold  his  blanched 
and  bruised  brow!  Behold  his  sunken  sockets,  and  visage  pale! 
No  vile  passion  is  depicted  there.  Revenge  sits  not  enthroned 
on  the  martyred  brow  it  has  butchered.  Anger  lights  not  the 
eye,  nor  curls  the  lip,  which  once  beamed  with  moderation,  and 
blessed  with  mercy  and  love.  Oh  no !  the  angel  of  dove-like  peace 
sits  there,  the  herald  of  the  happiness  he  came  to  bestow  on  de- 
generate men. 

Ah  see!  he  has  bowed  his  head  and  died!  With  the  word  of 
life  upon  his  lips,  and  the  blessing  of  heaven  in  his  heart,  he  has 
met  death  from  the  dart  of  the  assassin,  and  perished  to  perpetuate 
the  boon  he  bequeathed.  The  prophecies  are  fulfilled  ;  and  man 
redeemed !  In  the  moment  he  became  a  conqueror,  he  became 
a  corpse.  Thus  to  reclaim  from  sins,  and  soften  the  condition  of 
man,  the  great  Mediator  departed  from  the  world.  No  sooner 
24 


186  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

had  the  spirit  of  the  glorious  victim  vanished,  than  the  great  tri- 
umph was  announced.  The  sun  blushed,  and  buried  his  face  in 
the  gloom  of  midnight,  while  the  marble  jaws  of  the  tomb  were 
rent  asunder,  and  rolled  forth  the  dead,  who  had  slumbered  for 
ages  on  the  pillow  of  their  repose,  to  walk  the  earth,  startled  from 
their  deep  damp  vaults  by  the  agonies  of  an  expiring  God.  In 
that  awful  hour,  the  key  of  heaven's  happy  portal,  and  of  hell's 
inexorable  doors,  was  placed  in  the  hand  of  man.  In  that  awful 
hour,  man  became  the  arbiter  of  his  choice,  whether  to  be  doomed 
to  the  dark  dungeons  of  the  lower  world,  or  to  rise  to  the  sublime 
palaces  and  gardens  of  God ;  whether  to  be  entombed  amid  the 
burning  wreck  of  human  crime,  or  wander  in  the  flowery  fields 
and  pleasant  plains  of  Paradise.  ,s 

No  garlands  adorned  his  grave,  and  no  tears,  save  those  of  wo- 
man, bedewed  the  place  of  his  repose.  His  few  followers  alone 
wept  over  his  death,  and  worshipped  his  divinity;  they  alone 
mourned  over  his  wounds,  and  admired  his  wisdom.  Jesus  Christ 
was  a  martyr  to  the  very  immortality  of  man;  for  his  gospel,  the 
glorious  mantle  of  his  memory,  fell  upon  us  all.  Precious  and 
imperishable  was  that  legacy  of  love !  Treasured  in  the  heart,  it 
has  become  the  brightest  gem  on  the  brows  of  beauty;  at  once 
the  refuge  of  the  wretched,  the  solace  of  society,  the  charm  of 
solitude,  and  the  amulet  of  age,  of  anguish,  and  despair.  His 
very  tomb  became  a  temple,  and  his  relics  and  resurrection  con- 
founded skepticism,  which,  in  vengeance,  but  in  vain,  attempted 
to  rise  upon  his  ruin,  and  make  him  the  scourge  and  scorn  of 
mankind.  Even  when  enveloped  in  the  gloomy  garb  of  the  grave, 
even  when  the  doom  of  death  had  passed  and  the  glorious  Inter- 
cessor no  longer  blushed  and  bled  for  the  sins  of  his  enemies ; 
even  when  piety  and  affection,  in  the  angel  garb  of  woman,  alone 
mused,  and  mourned  at  the  door  of  the  sacred  sepulchre;  even 
then  his  spirit  triumphed  in  the  doctrine  which  his  death  had 
achieved.  Even  then  his  gospel  was  destined  to  become  the  glory 
of  the  world,  a  solemn  and  sublime  memento  of  his  merits,  and 
the  glorious  monument  of  his  mercy,  which  neither  Pagan  super- 
stition could  pollute,  nor  all  the  revolutions  of  time  could  blast 
nor  obliterate.  Inspired  with  the  spirit  of  that  wonderful  being 
who  sits  enthroned  in  gold,  and  in  whose  sight  "vast  worlds  hang 
trembling,"  the  gospel  became  more  imperishable  than  the  pillars 
of  the  universe ;  and  though  all  the  rays  of  persecution  have  been 
concentrated  upon  it,  in  the  language  of  a  great  classic,  they 
served  to  illumine,  but  could  not  consume. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  187 

He  left  behind  the  light  of  his  glorious  intellect,  to  linger  among 
men,  at  once  the  beacon,  the  beauty,  and  the  blessing  of  this 
world  !  His  humility  and  mildness,  his  benevolence  and  love, 
must  ever  remain  the  blest  memorial  of  his  mission,  and  be  handed 
to  the  latest  posterity  as  perfect  patterns,  for  he  was  without  a 
model.  The  benefit  conferred  can  never  be  abolished,  for  he 
crushed  the  very  serpent  that  crawled  over  the  cradle  of  Eden,  and 
dashed  from  the  hand  of  death,  and  the  grasp  of  the  grave,  the 
very  attributes  of  their  victory  and  their  vengeance.  In  his  death, 
he  redeemed  the  violated  virtue  of  our  first  father,  and  palliated 
with  his  blood  the  impiety  of  Eve,  when  her  soul  was  won  to  sin 
by  the  seductive  blandishments  of  the  serpent.  The  miseries  they 
entailed  upon  mankind,  were  mitigated  and  immerged  in  the  im- 
munities conferred  by  his  martyrdom  and  the  gospel  he  gave  to 
the  world. 

The  very  cities  and  empires  which  were  the  scenes  of  the  pro- 
phecies, of  his  miracles  and  martyrdom,  as  though  cursed  by  hea- 
ven, have  crumbled  to  dust,  and  their  ruins  alone  remain  as  me- 
mentos of  their  former  magnificence. 

Where  now  is  the  glory  of  ancient  Jerusalem,  the  princes  of 
Palestine,  decked  with  the  gaudy  grandeur  of  Solomon,  and  graced 
with  her  lofty  temples,  her  towers,  and  her  tombs? 

Where  now  is  the  splendor  of  Babylon,  adorned  with  her"  golden 
gates,  her  temple  of  Belus,  and  her  hanging  gardens  and  ever- 
lasting walls?  Alas,  they  are  in  ruins,  and  their  crumbling  tem- 
ples and  tombs  alone  remain,  sad  monuments,  amid  the  waste  of 
time,  of  their  rise  and  ruin,  of  their  degradation  and  decay.  Their 
sumptuous  halls,  where  eloquence,  and  mirth,  and  music  once 
held  the  listening  ears  of  the  grand  and  the  gay,  have  since  be- 
come the  lion's  lair,  or  echoes  the  hooting  of  the  dusky  owl  and 
the  hiss  of  the  solitary  serpent.  The  land  of  the  elect,  the  garden 
of  God,  has  become  the  abode  of  the  barbarian,  the  home  of  the 
Mahometan ;  and  the  very  scenes  which  groaned  and  glittered 
beneath  the  palaces  of  Solomon,  are  now  distinguished  only  by 
the  tent  of  the  humble  Arab,  or  the  gorgeous  mosque  of  the  Mos- 
lem. The  laden  camel  now  rests  his  limbs  in  the  banquet  hall  of 
the  ancient  kings,  and  the  toad  spits  its  venom  in  the  boudoirs  of 
ancient  beauty.  Even  the  tombs  of  the  mighty  and  magnificent, 
the  tombs  of  Oriental  genius  have  become  the  refuge  of  the  Ara- 
bian robber,  while  the  sepulchres  of  Israel's  potentates  are  pro- 
faned by  the  nocturnal  triumphs  of  a  barbarian  banditti.  The  very 


188  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

dust  of  their  high  priests  and  princes  may  have  become  the  ce- 
ment of  the  sepulchre  of  Mahomet.  Melancholy  is  the  memory, 
and  sad  the  renown  of  the  once  worshipped  and  wonderful  Jeru- 
salem. The  fame  of  the  East  and  the  favorite  of  heaven !  she 
bade  fair  to  flourish  through  all  time,  like  the  pyramids  of  Egypt, 
and  to  wither  but  with  the  world.  The  traveller  now  treads  upon 
her  mouldering  walls,  and  the  ruins  of  her  once  majestic  temples, 
to  muse  for  a  moment  on  the  mutability  of  human  glory,  and  to 
sigh  over  the  miseries  of  ungrateful  man. 

And  where  too  is  the  glory  of  Athens,  the  seat  of  science  and 
the  home  of  song?  The  illuminator  of  nations,  the  haunt  of  So- 
crates, Plato  and  Zeno,  and  the  very  cradle  of  liberty,  learning 
and  law?  Like  Greece,  she  has  become  the  grave  of  her  own 
glory,  her  light  only  serving  to  distinguish  the  circle  of  darkness 
which  surrounds  her — magnificent  in  her  ruin,  and  melancholy  in 
her  magnificence.  The  lamp  of  her  ancient  learning  has  gone  out 
in  the  midnight  of  ages,  and  her  Acropolis  has  crumbled  at  the 
touch  of  the  irresistible  tooth  of  time.'  The  fame  of  her  philoso- 
phy alone  survives  her  fallen  grandeur;  the  pages  of  history  alone 
preserve  the  relics  of  her  renown. 

When  Paul  preached  in  her  pulpit,  and  Plato  plead  his  philoso- 
phy in  her  porch,  Athens  was  the  wonder  and  admiration  of  the 
world.  • 

Imperial  Rome,  whose  pampered  soldiery  offered  insolence  and 
injury  to  an  insulted  Saviour,  lies  in  ruins,  a  mighty  marble  wreck, 
the  sceptre  of  her  ancient  splendor,  and  the  mere  apparition  of 
her  ancient  renown.  Rome,  within  whose  walls  millions  once 
congregated;  Rome,  the  conqueror  of  Carthage,  and  the  world, 
has  become  the  lap  of  ruin,  like  her  ancient  catacombs,  still  white 
with  the  mangled  remains  of  the  martyred  Christians.  Her  mil- 
lions have  gone  down  to  the  dust;  her  glory  slumbers  beneath  her 
crumbling  columns,  and  her  time-worn  walls;  her  arts  lie  dormant 
in  the  lap  of  Gothic  darkness,  and  her  science  reposes  in  the  un- 
numbered volumes  of  the  Vatican.  Rome  is  no  longer  the  city  of 
the  Caesars.  Such  has  been  the  fate  of  all  those  countries  which 
were  the  scenes  of  the  Saviour's  sorrows  and  sufferings.  A  thou- 
sand thrones  have  vanished;  a  thousand  cities  have  become  silent; 
empires  have  passed  away  on  the  ocean  of  oblivion,  and  even  na- 
tions have  been  annihilated  amid  the  wrecks  and  rubbish  of  time's 
revolutions.  The  Jews  are  a  splendid  example.  Born  in  the  lap  of 
luxury  and  bred  amid  all  that  was  grand  and  glorious,  the  peculiar 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  189 

favorites  of  heaven,  they  dreamed  not  of  their  degradation,  and 
reckless  of  their  ruin,  seemed  to  dare  that  arm 

"Which  heaved  the  heavens,  the  ocean,  and  the  land." 
"J»  '."W.-^-adJ  bflf  v4?.l*0*  'H-*  I  . 

The  Jewish  empire  and  people  were  once  mighty.  What  are  they 
now?  The  sun  of  their  glory  which  arose  in  lustre  was  doomed 
to  go  down  in  oblivion.  They  have  been  scattered  over  the  earth, 
while  their  identity  has  been  preserved  as  a  mark,  and  a  remem- 
brance of  their  turpitude  and  treachery.  The  cup  of  heaven's 
kindness  dashed  from  their  lips,  and  pining  under  the  doom  of 
prophecy,  they  have  become  the  proverb  and  the  prey  of  all  na- 
tions. Looking  forward  for  that  Saviour  who  has  already  suffered 
for  the  sins  of  mankind,  and  neglecting  the  mercy  which  he  has 
already  meted  out,  they  wander  in  the  dark  for  the  rays  of  that 
light  which  has  already  illuminated  the  world.  Yet,  notwithstand- 
ing the  benefits  conferred  by  the  gospel,  there  are  those  in  the 
present  day  who  would  hurl  from  the  hand  of  age,  the  only  cup 
of  his  comfort,  and  snatch  from  the  lip  of  sorrow  the  balm  of  its 
consolation.  There  are  skeptical  scoffers  who  would  drag  from 
the  beggar  his  only  boon  on  earth,  who  would  extinguish  the  very 
day-star  whose  beams  light  error  and  ignorance  to  the  path  which 
leads  to  glory  and  to  God.  Merciful  God!  there  are  those  who 
would  see  the  venerated  temple  of  Christianity  tumble  to  the  earth, 
and  triumph  over  the  downfall  of  the  most  beautiful  and  benefi- 
cent doctrine  in  the  world.  Yes,  there  are  those  that  would  mock 
at  the  bleeding  shade  of  the  resuscitated  Saviour,  and  laugh  to 
scorn  the  blessings  conferred  by  his  doctrine  and  his  death.  Infi- 
delity strikes  at  the  very  divinity  of  Christ. 

The  introduction  of  Christianity  has  conferred  benefits  on  soci- 
ety, which  were  unknown  in  the  days  of  Pagan  doctrines  and 
darkness.  Abolish  it,  and  what  is  the  consequence?  Let  us  ex- 
amine the  pages  of  history!  let  us  turn  to  France,  the  land  of 
fashion,  for  a  picture  so  touching,  and  so  terrible  a  catastrophe. 
Aye,  let  us  turn  to  France,  the  very  home  of  philosophy  and  fame; 
the  very  land  of  social  virtues,  of  elegance  and  grace,  and  we  shall 
see  her  scaffolds  streaming  with  the  blood  which  skepticism  de- 
manded for  the  altar  of  her  hellish  adoration.  We  shall  there  see 
her  Sabbath  abolished;  her  cities  sacked,  her  sons  groaning  in 
dungeons  beneath  an  intolerable  tyranny,  her  priests  turned  out 
to  pine  in  penury,  and  her  princes  and  her  potentates  sacrificed 


190  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD   BARD. 

on  the  pyre  lit  from  the  fires  of  hell.  Poverty  became  the  pander 
of  licentious  power,  and  virtue  became  the  victim,  and  beauty  the 
oblation  on  the  accursed  altar  of  promiscuous  prostitution.  No 
charm  was  spared,  no  virlue  was  secure.  The  attractions  of 
beauty,  the  pride  of  birth,  the  pomp  of  wealth,  and  the  glory  of 
talents,  served  only  as  incentives  to  persecution  and  plunder. 
The  infidel  dem&n,  Robespierre,  was  in  league  with  death,  and 
the  gore  that  gushed  from  a  hundred  hearts  of  the  bravest  and  the 
best,  was  bat  a  moiety  of  that  terrible  torrent  which  swept  away 
the  religion  and  liberties  of  France,  and  which  dyed  their  brow 
red  with  the  avenging  wrath  of  God.  The  convulsive  heavings  of 
the  French  volcano*  lit  all  Europe  Avith  its  lurid  flame,  and  the 
terrors  it  excited,  subsided  only  with  the  death  of  the  master  de- 
mon. Look  at  the  last  moments  of  those  miserable  men  who 
plunged  all  France  in  grief,  made  blood  their  oblation  at  their  al- 
tar of  liberty,  and  plundered  the  expiring  heart  of  its  very  hopes 
of  heaven.  Too  cowardly,  when  condemned  to  strike  the  dagger 
home  to  their  own  hearts,  they  were  meanly  dragged  to  the  same 
block  which  their  tyranny  had  made  to  run  red  with  the  blood  of 
so  many. 

Trembling  at  the  terrors  which  surrounded  them,  and  deafened 
by  the  rejoicing  plaudits  of  the  multitude,  they  perished,  and  found 
a  grave  unregretted,  though  not  forgotten. 

Thus  died  the  ruffian  Robespierre,  covered  with  the  curses  of  a 
thousand  mourning  mothers.  Thus  fell  one  of  the  most  terrific 
tyrants  that  ever  prostituted  power  or  disgraced  the  glory  of  a 
nation.  He  died  not  like  a  Christian,  but  like  a  demon.  The 
principles  he  had  perpetuated  perished  with  him,  and  if  these 
were  the  trophies  of  the  tenets  of  Rousseau,  well  might  Napoleon 
exclaim,  while  contemplating  his  tomb,  that  it  had  been  better  for 
France  had  he  never  lived.  Beneath  the  skeptical  philosophy 
Rousseau  originated,  France  withered  ;  and  under  such  a  system  of 
universal  vice,  the  world  would  become  a  waste  and  man  a  mur- 
derer. Sweep  Christianity  from  our  hearths,  and  our  hearts,  from 
our  churches  and  homes,  banish  the  Bible  from  the  pulpit,  the 
closet,  and  parlor,  and  give  skepticism  the  sceptre  of  the  same 
power  she  possessed  in  France,  and  the  world  would  become  a 
mighty  Colosseum  of  carnage,  and  the  hands  of  a  hundred  Robes- 
pierres  would  reek  with  the  unmeasured  gore  of  millions. 

Let  us  then  cling  to  Christianity  as  the  last  plank  of  ship- 
wrecked humanity,  and  the  only  anchor  of  our  hope,  and  our 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  191 

happiness!  Let  that  brilliant  luminary  which  went  down  in 
blood  on  Calvary,  be  the  morning  star  of  our  merits  and  our 
memory;  being  assured,  that  it  will  light  us  to  the  pleasant  paths 
of  peace  in  this  world,  and  beyond  the  dark  defilop  of  death  and 
the  grave.  »  '  •  §-? 


t  Infant 


METHINKS  I  stand  within  the  manger  now, 
Gazing  upon  the  infant  God,  who  lies 
Smiling,  upon  the  holy  Mother's  breast. 
Upon  his  face  the  light  of  love  beams  forth, 
And  in  his  eye  sweet  mercy  sits  enthroned, 
While  on  his  lofty  brow  the  stamp  of  heaven 
Proclaims  him  more  than  mortal — now  methinks 
I  hear  the  shouting  shepherds  cry  aloud — 
Glad  tidings,  from  a  hundred  hills,  and  peace 
To  all  the  fallen  world,  for,  lo!  a  child, 
The  great  Redeemer  of  mankind,  is  born ! 
Oh!  glorious  hour,  when  e'en  the  greedy  grave 
Gave  up  its  victory,  and  in  man's  heart 
Death's  dark  winged  angel  left  his  sting  no  more! 
Oh!  glorious  hour,  when  his  Almighty  hand 
Hung  the  bright  rainbow  of  redemption  round 
A  dying  and  degraded  world,  and  bade 
The  gentle  mandate  of  sweet  mercy  cha«e 
Away  the  midnight  mists  of  sin  and  shame! 
Then  man  was  truly  made  immortal — then 
The  golden  gates  of  heaven,  wide  open  thrown, 
Welcomed  him  home  to  happiness ;  and  then 
The  happy  angels,  in  the  halls  of  heaven, 
Awoke,  upon  their  harps  of  gold,  the  song 
Of  gladness  and  of  glory  to  the  Lamb, 
Who  came  to  die  that  wretched  man  might  live. 


• . »: 


Cjrnst  an  Calbarg. 


"  THERE  stands  the  messenger  of  truth  :  there  stands 
The  legate  of  the  skies !— His  theme  divine, 
His  office  sacred,  his  credentials  clear. 
By  him  the  violated  law  speaks  out 
Its  thunders ;  and  by  him  In  strains  as  sweet 
As  angels  use,  the  Gospel  whispers  peace. 
He  'stablishes  the  strong,  restores  the  weak, 
Reclaims  the  wand'rer,  binds  the  broken  heart."— COWPER. 

AM  invited  to  record  my  opinion  of  the  most 
[illustrious  and  glorious  character,  that  ever  con- 
descended to  tread  the  earth — of  the  most  bril- 
liant and  beautiful  doctrine  that  ever  illuminated 
(the  mind  of  man.  I  am  solicited  to  draw  the 
'picture  of  a  scene  which  millions  of  mankind 
have  contemplated  with  feelings  the  most  tender 
and  terrific — a  scene  that  the  eternal  founder  of 
the  universe  could  not  view  unmoved — a  scene 
of  all  others  the  most  touching  and  irresistibly 
sublime.  That  character,  so  noble,  so  magnifi- 
cent and  divine,  is  no  other  than  the  all-glorious 
and  sacred  Saviour  of  the  world — that  doctrine 
no  less  than  the  luminous  and  everlasting  oracle 
of  his  lips — that  scene,  so  touching,  so  tremen- 
dous and  terrific,  and  which  none  may  rival  but 
the  final  dissolution  of  nature,  is  no  other  and  no  less  than  the 
crucifixion  of  a  God,  for  the  redemption  of  the  insignificant, 
though  immortal  creature,  man. 

I  feel  the  grandeur  of  my  subject;  a  theme  of  all  others  the 
most  sublime,  the  most  sympathetic  and  susceptible  of  melting 
the  heart  of  man.  In  contemplating  so  magnificent  a  character, 
I  am  at  a  loss  for  language  sufficiently  elevated  to  do  justice  to 
his  immortal  fame;  even  the  pen  with  which  I  write,  plucked  from 
the  wing  of  the  heaven-soaring  eagle,  is  inadequate  to  the  task  of 
portraying  the  attributes  of  the  Saviour  of  mankind.  The  melting 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

story  of  our  Saviour's  sufferings,  of  our  Redeemer's  wrongs  in  the 
prelude,  and  consummation  on  Calvary,  what  'human  fancy  may 
delineate,  what  human  language  describe!  The  brilliant  history 
of  that  unrivalled  character,  exhibits  the  deepest  traits  of  human 
nature  that  are  recorded  on  the  pages  of  fame,  or  enrolled  in  the 
archives  of  ages.  Whether  we  behold  him  in  the  temple  or  tri- 
bunal, irl  solitude  or  society,  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  he  is  the  same 
grand  and  glorious  character,  the  same  benevolent  and  blessed 
being.  He  was  emphatically  the  child  of  humility.  Born  in  a 
manger,  cradled  in  obscurity,  and  bred  to  human  industry,  he  was 
an  example,  a  striking  model  of  retiring  modesty.  We  survey 
him  scorned,  scourged  and  trampled  upon,  without  complaining, 
and  almost  without  reproof,  meek  as  the  lamb  beneath  the  knife 
of  the  butcher.  And  yet  he  was  a  God,  the  King  of  kings,  whose 
power  was  omnipotent,  and  whose  knowledge  was  unbounded; 
who  could  have  shaken  the  throne  and  darkened  the  destiny  of 
even  the  tyrant  that  condemned  him.  Would  that  I  could  inherit, 
at  this  moment,  the  electric  eloquence  of  a  Chrysostom,  the  un- 
rivalled pencil  of  a  West  or  a  Leonardo  de  Vinci,  that  I  might  do 
justice  to  the  glorious  doctrine  and  picture  of  human  redemption. 
Neither  the  Talmud  nor  the  Koran,  nor  any  other  doctrine  ever 
promulgated  by  the  mouth  of  man,  is  so  replete  in  mildness  and 
mercy,  so  full  of  grandeur  and  glory,  of  sublimity  and  song,  as 
that  which  our  Lord  and  Saviour  gave  to  a  dying  world.  The 
saint  and  the  savage,  the  philosopher  and  the  fool,  alike  have  felt 
its  influence  and  testified  to  the  superb  sentiments  and  living  lan- 
guage which  it  contains.  Its  influence,  what,  telescopic  eye  can 
foresee,  what  human  intelligence  recapitulate.  From  that  great 
and  gloomy,  though  glorious  era,  when  the  Saviour  came  to  re- 
deem a  fallen  world,  it  has  swayed  the  minds  of  men,  and  its  in- 
fluence will  continue  over  millions  of  men  unborn.  The  cold  and 
treacherous  assassin,  as  he  stole  at  midnight  to  the  couch  of  sleep- 
ing innocence,  has  felt  its  power  when  the  undipped  dagger  fell 
from  his  conscience-stricken  hand ;  and  the  savage  tomahawk  has 
found  a  grave,  by  the  secret  and  mysterious  influence  of  its  god- 
like power.  It  hath  bidden  the  stream  of  charity  to  flow  from  the 
closed  and  withered  heart  of  avarice,  and  it  hath  released  the  grip 
of  oppression  from  the  pale  and  piteous  form  of  penury.  Yea,  it 
hath  even  softened  the  adamantine  heart  of  the  tyrant,  an,d  severed 
the  chains  which  rattled  on  the  arms  of  the  guiltless  sons  of  Afri- 
ca. The  pale  and  pensive  suicide  hath  called  upon  it  for  aid,  ere 
he  lifted  the  weapon  to  the  tottering  throne  of  reason,  nor  did  he 
25 


194  WETTINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

call  in  vain ;  beneath  the  influence  of  its  present  balm  and  pro- 
mised bliss,  the  troubled  sea  of  passion  subsided,  and  the  wrecks 
of  disappointed  hopes  broke  with  the  next  wave,  upon  the  shore  of 
oblivion.  Who  hath  not  seen  the  condemned,  the  outcast  of  the 
earth,  whose  hands  were  still  reeking  with  the  gore  of  his  fellow- 
man,  chained  in  the  deep  dark  dungeon?  And  who  hath  not 
seen  that  dungeon  become  the  happiest  home  that  had  ever  held 
that  wretch,  by  the  influence  of  the  Gospel,  making  his  heart  a 
heaven,  and  casting  a  sunshine  even  on  the  dreadful  hour  of  dis- 
solution. Who  then  but  a  demon  would  sigh  to  see  so  glorious  a 
gift  cut  off  from  the  reach  of  man  ?  Lives  there  a  wretch  who 
would  wish  to  see  the  splendid  sun  of  redemption  go  down  forever 
in  the  eternal  night  of  infidelity?  Ay,  what  man,  even  a  friend  to 
society,  would  smile  to  see  the  flimsy  and  fanciful  philosophy  of 
infidelity,  triumph  over  the  ruins  of  the  superb  system  of  Christi- 
anity? Until  something  more  sublime,  something  more  consoling 
and  conciliatory,  can  be  substituted  in  the  place  of  the  annihilat- 
ing philosophy  of  infidelity,  let  the  ancient  and  venerable  temple 
of  Christianity  still  tower  over  the  fallen  pyramids  of  Pagan  super- 
stition, the  safeguard  of  morals,  and  the  harbinger  of  hope  and 
happiness  hereafter.  I  would  rather  bow  at  the  humble  altar  of 
the  Christian,  than  be  the  priest  of  the  rites  and  ceremonies  of  the 
Delphic  Oracle — I  would  rather  trust  to  the  merciful  promises  of 
the  Gospel,  than  be  versed  in  all  the  splendid  and  specious  phi- 
losophy of  the  French  Illuminati — I  would  rather  wear  the  crown 
of  the  humblest  of  the  martyrs,  than  that  of  the  proudest  poten- 
tate of  the  earth.  Where  was  the  brilliant  and  fine-spun  philoso- 
phy of  Voltaire,  at  the  fearful  moment  of  dissolution?  Where 
were  the  splendid  and  sophistical  reasonings  of  Mirabeau,  Mau- 
pertuis  and  D'Alembert,  when  the  last  trump  sounded  in  their 
dying  ears?  Gone,  like  the  airy  fabric  of  a  noon-day  dream.  As 
well  might  such  systems  be  compared  to  Christianity,  as  the  me- 
teor of  the  night  to  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  luminary  of  day. 

Other  characters  have  arisen,  flourished  and  fallen — other  con- 
querors have  shaken  the  world  with  the  tumult  of  their  triumphs, 
and  dazzled  the  imaginations  of  men  with  the  brilliancy  of  their 
achievements,  and  the  rapidity  of  their  career — other  patriots  have 
severed  the  chains  and  dispelled  the  Gothic  darkness  of  slavery, 
entered  the  temple  of  fame  and  recorded  the  freedom  of  a  nation; 
but  none  may  compare  with  the  rising  of  that  illustrious  luminary, 
for  he  not  only  shed  a  light  upon  succeeding  ages — he  not  only 
conquered  the  hearts  and  fallen  hopes  of  man — he  not  only  car- 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  195 

riecl  captive  the  king  of  terrors  and  the  sins  of  the  world,  but  he 
triumphed  over  the  tomb,  and  achieved  a  revolution  in  the  very 
nature  and  nothingness,  in  the  very  destiny  and  dignity  of  man. 
The  splendor  of  his  victories  cast  a  shade  upon  the  exploits  of  a 
Scipio  and  Caesar,  for  without  a  sword  he  revolutionized  the  world, 
and  beheld  the  nations  kneeling  before  him — the  thunders  of  Sinai 
surpassed  the  eloquence  of  a  Cicero  in  its  grandeur  and  power, 
for  it  was  more  irresistible  than  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  tumult 
of  battle,  and  the  manner  of  his  warfare  reversed  the  order  of 
revolution,  giving  new  life  to  the  combatants.  And  by  what  means 
did  he  achieve  so  brilliant  and  beneficial  a  revolution?  Go  muse 
amid  the  melancholy  and  mouldering  wrecks  of  Jerusalem,  and 
ask  the  genius  of  those  solitudes!  Go  and  ascend  the  summit  of 
the  far-famed  Calvary — go  to  the  sepulchre  of  the  Saviour,  to  the 
tomb  of  the  triumphant  Redeemer,  and  to  the  garden  where  his 
disciples  slept  under  the  influence  of  grief,  and  methinks  an  aspi- 
ration from  those  scenes  will  recite  the  story  of  his  sufferings  and 
sorrows,  the  history  of  the  redemption  of  man ! 

Let  us  turn  for  a  moment  and  survey  that  scene  which  eventu- 
ated in  the  emancipation  of  a  world.  Let  us  contemplate  that 
character  of  all  others  the  most  illustrious  and  divine.  We  behold 
the  man !  To  appearance  but  a  man,  yet,  in  fact,  endowed  with 
all  the  attributes  of  a  God.  The  prophetic  tongues  of  men  long 
mouldered  into  dust,  have  foretold  his  dawning  and  his  doom,  and 
his  own  intuitive  knowledge;  his  own  prophetic  soul,  is  looking 
forward  to  that  hour  which  must  bring  the  consummation  of  that 
grand  catastrophe,  which  was  destined  to  rescue  millions  from 
misery.  But  he  shrunk  not  from  the  sacrifice  which  was  neces- 
sary to  the  consummation.  The  agonies  of  the  cross  could  not 
alarm  him,  neither  had  the  tomb  any  terror  for  him,  for  he  was 
confident  of  the  triumph,  and  that  he  could  descend,  without  fear, 
to  that  gloomy  repository,  which  covers  alike  all  human  hopes  and 
all  human  anticipations.  No  human  animosity  or  resentment 
dwelt  in  his  heavenly  heart;  for,  with  kindness  and  consideration, 
he  designated  the  man  who  should  betray  him.  Firmness  and 
dignity  were  characteristic  of  him,  who  was  not  ignorant  that  the 
most  cruel  and  ignominious  of  all  deaths  awaited  him.  Behold 
him  bound  and  dragged  before  the  high  priest.  I  adjure  thee, 
says  Caiaphas,  in  the  name  of  the  living  God,  to  tell  me  whether 
thou  art  the  Christ  or  not?  If  I  tell  thee,  returned  the  Saviour, 
thou  wilt  not  believe  me,  but  nevertheless,  I  say  to  you,  hereafter 
you  shall  see  the  son  of  man  sitting  at  the  right  hand  of  the  power 


196  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

of  God,  and  coming  in  the  clouds  of  heaven.  The  priest  hearing 
his  words,  that  he  was  the  Son  of  God,  cried  out — he  hath  blas- 
phemed, and  is  worthy  of  death.  Ah!  see  how  meekly  he  bears 
the  indignities  heaped  upon  him.  How  melts  the  heart  at  the  re- 
collection, that  he  who  was  at  that  moment  preparing  to  redeem 
poor  fallen  man  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  own  sublime  life,  was  also 
suffering  the  scorns,  the  taunts  and  bufferings,  of  those  same  crea- 
tures, for  whom  his  blood  was  to  be  shed.  The  fall  of  Peter  at 
that  period,  was  a  conspicuous  example  of  the  weakness  of  human 
nature,  and  the  strength  of  human  resolution,  for  he  no  sooner 
became  conscious  of  his  fall,  than  he  attempted  to  rise  by  repent- 
ance. "I  hear  not  the  voice  of  St.  Peter,  lamenting  his  fall,"  says 
St.  Ambrose,  "but  I  see  his  tears."  Blessed  tears,  that  can  cor- 
rect the  heart. 

Let  us  survey  the  Saviour  before  Pilate,  whom  the  crowd  is  call- 
ing upon  the  judge  to  condemn.  Let  his  blood  fall  upon  us  and 
our  children,  cried  the  Jews;  and  never  was  an  imprecation  more 
faithfully  fulfilled,  more  avengingly  executed.  Pilate,  borne  down 
by  the  torrent  of  his  passions,  stopped  not  to  listen  to  the  dictates 
of  duty,  the  pleadings  of  pity,  or  the  cries  of  injured  innocence. 
Here  is  one  of  those  strong  and  touching  traits  of  human  nature. 
Though  his  heart  inclined  to  pity  the  distressed,  and  succor  the 
innocent,  yet  the  tumult  of  contending  passions,  the  love  of 
wealth,  of  grandeur  and  power,  the  fear  of  immolating  popularity 
on  the  altar  of  humanity,  and  the  dread  of  the  resentment  of  the 
mighty  Caesar,  the  autocrat  of  the  earth,  opposed  the  piteous  dic- 
tates of  his  heart,  and  resisted  the  philosophy  of  pity. 

In  mournful  silence  let  us  follow  the  condemned  Saviour  to  the 
summit  of  Calvary,  and  witness  that  spectacle,  which  struck  terror 
to  the  spectators,  and  melted  even  the  heart  of  adamant.  Me- 
thinks  I  see  him  with  his  crown  of  thorns,  and  bending  beneath 
the  weight  of  his  cross.  The  prophecy  of  Isaiah  is  fulfilled,  for 
he  is  ranked  with  sinners.  Methinks  I  see  him  nailed  to  the 
cross.  It  was  the  sixth  hour  of  the  day,  and  what  a  dreadful  hour. 
We  are  informed,  by  the  incontestible  evidence  of  sacred  writ, 
that  a  mournful  darkness  overspread  the  face  of  heaven,  and 
shrouded  the  earth  as  in  mourning.  There  hung,  at  that  tremen- 
dous hour,  the  adorable  mediator  between  God  and  man,  a  spec- 
tacle for  men  and  angels;  an  example  of  undying  love  and  mercy. 
There  he  hung  bleeding,  and  in  agony,  and  though  his  sufferings 
were  insulted,  he  sought  no  revenge,  for  his  thoughts  were  the 
thoughts  of  peace.  Father  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  197 

they  do.  How  tender,  how  touching  were  his  words;  covered 
with  wounds,  he  was  emphatically  that  man  of  sorrows  and  pains 
that  Isaiah  had  described.  Knowing  that  all  things  which  had 
been  foretold  were  fulfilled;  that  all  things  were  accomplished, 
and  that  the  grand  consummation  was  at  hand,  he  said,  I  thirst, 
and  having  drank  the  vinegar,  he  said,  "It  is  consummated."  Three 
hours  had  this  glorious  though  ghastly  spectacle  continued,  and 
every  thing  which  the  prophets  had  said  of  the  Saviour  and  his 
sufferings,  being  accomplished,  nothing  remained  but  to  pay  the 
last  tribute  for  the  redemption  of  the  world.  What  an  hour  was 
that  of  sublimity  and  sorrow — what  a  moment  of  terror  and  tri- 
umph! That  grand  type  of  the  Saviour,  the  glorious  sun  in  the 
heavens,  was  eclipsed,  as  though  unwilling  to  illuminate  the  earth 
when  the  greater  light  of  the  world  was  darkening  in  death.  An 
universal  gloom,  as  of  midnight  or  the  grave,  covered  the  earth 
until  the  ninth  hour.  The  globe  shook  as  with  an  earthquake,  the 
eternal  rocks  cracked  and  split  asunder,  and  the  marble  jaws  of 
the  grave  opened  and  gave  up  its  gloomy  dead.  Methinks  I  see 
the  terrific  scene  and  hear  the  exclamations  of  the  multitude,  as 
they  gaze,  with  ghastly  countenance,  upon  the  veil  of  the  temple 
rent  in  twain.  Jesus  Christ,  at  that  moment  of  agony,  cried  with 
a  loud  voice,  Father,  into  thy  hands  I  commend  my  spirit.  Spent 
with  suffering,  he  bowed  his  head  and  died.  What  a  glorious  yet 
gloomy  moment  was  that!  The  world  was  redeemed;  the  accu- 
mulated sins  of  man,  which  had  been  darkening  his  destiny  from 
the  Eden  era  to  the  Christian,  were  now  washed  away  by  the 
blood  of  him,  of  whom  an  elegant  writer  observes,  that  with  the 
very  spear  which  they  crucified  him,  he  crucified  the  world.  The 
very  implements  of  their  vengeance  became  the  trophies  of  his 
victory.  At  that  moment  the  sting  of  death  was  obliterated,  and 
the  triumph  taken  from  the  grave.  At  that  moment  the  idol  tum- 
bled from  the  Pagan  temple,  and  the  genius  of  its  superstitions 
vanished  for  ever.  The  tongues  of  the  heathen  oracles,  which  for 
ages  had  held  dominion  over  the  intellect  of  man,  became  silent, 
and  their  inspiration  was  eclipsed  in  the  glory  of  the  Gospel  of 
God.  While  the  last  words  yet  quivered  upon  the  lips  of  the 
dying  Saviour,  the  mighty  revolution  was  achieved,  the  law  be- 
came void ;  the  mysteries  and  mandates  of  Moses  passed  away, 
and  the  new  dispensation  commenced.  That  dispensation,  that 
Gospel,  was  not  for  the  few,  but  the  many,  not  for  the  virtuous 
alone,  but  the  vicious.  The  miser  bowing  before  his  golden  god, 
the  monarch  seated  in  grandeur  on  his  glittering  throne,  and  the 


198  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

beggar  bending  beneath  his  woes,  are  alike  the  subjects  of  its 
denunciations,  alike  the  objects  of  its  offered  mercy. 

How  great  is  our  necessity  to  seize  with  avidity  the  benefits 
which  have  resulted  from  this  grand  catastrophe  and  glorious  con- 
summation. We  are  told  by  that  same  illustrious  character,  whom 
we  have  contemplated,  that  the  hour  is  approaching  with  incredi- 
ble velocity,  when  not  only  we  ourselves  shall  cease  to  exist,  but 
even  the  splendid  fabric  of  the  universe  shall  pass  away.  We 
have  his  own  word,  that  he  will  be  present  at  the  august  and  ter- 
rific scene.  That  he  will  come  in  his  chariot  of  fire  on  the  clouds, 
and  sit  as  a  spectator  of  the  grand  fabric  in  flames.  If  that  uni- 
versal alarm  were  to  break  forth  at  this  moment  in  the  heavens, 
what  a  consternation  and  confusion  would  it  not  produce  in  the 
concerns  and  pursuits  of  miserly  man!  In  the  resurrection  of  the 
Saviour  we  see  a  type  of  that  terrific  consummation,  when  every 
grave  shall  give  up  its  dead,  the  sea  roll  forth  its  millions,  and  the 
tombs  of  Oriental  genius,  and  the  sepulchres  of  ancient  saints  and 
sages,  priests  and  prophets,  teem  with  life.  What  a  sublime  as- 
semblage !  What  a  magnificent  multitude !  It  is  impossible  for 
the  finite  imagination  of  man  to  conceive  the  sublimity  of  that 
scene,  which  Christ  has  declared  shall  be  exhibited  to  the  assem- 
bled millions  of  mankind.  The  idea  of  a  single  planet  wrapt  in 
flames,  is  too  grand  to  be  admitted  into  the  mind ;  but  to  behold 
the  millions  of  those  vast  globes,  which  make  up  the  universe,  on 
fire;  to  behold  them  released  from  the  restraints  of  attraction  and 
gravity,  and  rushing  by  each  other  like  mighty  comets,  and  burst- 
ing with  the  explosion  of  their  materials,  is  a  picture  too  great  for 
the  mind  of  man  to  conceive,  or  conceiving,  to  describe. 

Let  it  be  sufficient  for  us  to  know,  that  the  Gospel  has  come 
down  to  us  with  glad  tidings,  and  that  he  who  rests  upon  that 
rock,  need  neither  fear  to  look  forward  to  the  dissolution  of  na- 
ture, nor  the  wreck  and  ruin  of  the  universe.  That  he  who  builds 
upon  that  rock,  need  neither  fear  the  gloom  of  the  grave,  nor  the 
last  loud  blast  which  shall  announce  the  cessation  of  the  revolu- 
tion of  time.  That  doctrine  upon  which  we  rest  our  hopes,  is 
destined  to  be  more  lasting  than  the  proud  pyramids  of  Egypt — it 
has  already  resisted  the  test  and  tooth  of  time,  and  stood  unhurt, 
amid  the  whirlwinds  of  passion.  While  the  empires  of  the  earth 
have  passed  away,  and  the  thrones  of  despots  have  crumbled  into 
dust,  the  temple  of  Christianity  has  still  stood  unhurt  by  the  war 
of  Pagan  superstition,  or  the  incendiary  of  modern  infidelity. 
Even  if  it  had  no  relation  to  futurity,  and  only  exerted  its  influ- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  199 

ence  in  the  correction  of  society,  it  were  a  blessing  not  to  be  ex- 
changed for  heartless  infidelities;  it  were  a  blessing  the  greatest 
and  most  glorious  ever  given  to  man.  That  it  is  founded  in  truth, 
needs  no  other  proof  than  the  destiny  and  present  dilapidated 
state  of  the  Jews.  The  heart  of  sensibility  bleeds  for  their  fate ; 
but  it  is  the  eternal  fiat  of  heaven.  That  unhappy  race  is  now 
scattered  over  the  earth;  a  mark  is  set  upon  them;  they  hare  be- 
come a  by-word,  and  they  are  the  suspected  of  all  men.  But  they 
are  not  forgotten,  they  are  still  full  of  hope  and  faith,  that  the 
Messiah  will  yet  make  his  appearance,  and  replace  them  again  in 
the  land  of  beautiful  Palestine — that  he  will  yet  come  in  majesty 
and  mercy  to  redeem  the  fallen  favorites  of  heaven,  and  to  build 
up  the  broken-hearted  children  of  Israel. 

How  astonishing,  how  startling  is  the  fact,  that  Christianity 
should  have  been  opposed,  at  the  very  dawn,  when  every  circum- 
stance was  fresh  in  the  mind,  and  by  men  who  had  witnessed  the 
very  spectacle  of  an  expiring  God  ?  "Socrates  died  like  a  philos- 
opher," says  Rousseau,  "but  Jesus  Christ  like  a  God."  Alas!  the 
catacombs  of  ruined  Rome,  still  exhibit  the  relics  of  the  illustrious 
martyrs,  who  expired  under  the  most  excruciating  torments,  or 
lingered  out  a  miserable  existence,  in  the  dungeons  of  supersti- 
tious tyranny.  Methinks  the  agonizing  groans  of  the  persecuted 
Christians,  still  echo  along  the  mouldering  walls  of  the  Colisseum, 
where  the  unfeeling  multitude  looked  unmoved  upon  the  mangled 
martyr  beneath  the  tooth  of  the  tiger,  and  the  gore  as  it  gushed 
from  the  heart  of  the  dying  gladiator.  There  thousands  of  the 
primitive  Christians  expired,  sad  spectacles  of  amusement  for  their 
Pagan  persecutors.  But  a  subject  so  sublime,  a  doctrine  so  divine, 
could  not  be  obliterated  by  the  paltry  attempts  of  tyrants,  and  it 
has  descended  the  tide  of  time,  to  us,  the  same  brilliant  and  im- 
perishable gift,  as  when  promulgated  to  the  world.  The  millions 
of  men  who  will  come  after  us,  will  see  the  same  beauty  and  be- 
atitude in  its  promises;  the  same  grandeur  and  glory  in  its  doc- 
trine. No  second  Judas  can  arise  to  betray  it,  though  thousands 
have  attempted  it;  no  second  traitor  can  triumph  over  the  down- 
fall of  his  doctrine.  It  is  fixed  on  the  rock  of  ages. 

O 

But  to  conclude  my  lofty  theme.  Every  prophecy  in  the  Gos- 
pel of  our  God,  is  fulfilling  with  astonishing  rapidity  and  precision 
— the  gift  of  glad  tidings  has  gone  forth  to  the  very  depths  of  our 
wilderness,  and  the  savage  sons  of  the  forest,  as  the  consequences, 
have  forgotten  their  ferocious  pursuits,  and  are  seen  bowing  the 
knee  to  God,  and  no  longer  paying  adoration  to  the  setting  sun. 


200  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

The  Gospel  has  gone  forth  to  the  Arab  and  the  Hindoo,  and  wo- 
man is  gradually  emerging  from  the  long  night  of  her  slavery,  to 
fill  the  station  to  which  she  is  entitled.  The  very  destiny  of  that 
heathen  inheritance  has  undergone  a  change,  for  the  hunter  is 
seen  cultivating  the  land,  and  the  war-chief  making  laws  to  govern 
his  civilized  posterity.  Truly  has  the  desert  blossomed  like  the 
rose.  No  longer  does  the  benighted  mind  of  the  Indian  pay  his 
devotions  to  the  genius  of  clouds,  or  look  for  the  coining  of  the 
Great  Spirit  in  the  storm  of  night;  but  he  sees  an  evidence  of  the 
living  God  in  all  his  works,  in  every  leaf  and  every  grain  that  veg- 
etates on  the  earth.  Such  were  the  effects  intended  to  be  pro- 
duced by  that  great  consummation  on  Calvary.  In  every  lane  of 
life,  and  in  every  avocation  of  our  concerns,  may  we  not  forget, 
that  for  us  this  grand  sacrifice  was  made,  and  thai  the  Saviour 
rendered  up  his  £wn  life,  that  we  might  live  forever. 

*  ..* 

"This  truth  ho^  certain,  whan  this  life  is,  a^er 
Man  dies  to  live,  and  lives  to  die  no  more." 


I  SAW  a  ship,  in  beauty  to  the  breeze, 

Bend  her  white  sails  upon  the  dark  blue  seas; 

Swift  o'er  the  billows,  on  the  wings  of  wind, 

She  disappeared,  nor  left  a  track  behind; 

At  morn  I  saw  her,  but  at  set  of  sun, 

Gone  was  that  ship,  her  trackless  race  was  run: 

And  thus  it  is  with  man,  his  soul  sublime,  -< 

In  life's  gay  morn,  upon  the  tide  of  time, 

Moves  on  in  grandeur;  but  when  night  comes  on, 

He,  on  eternity's  dark  sea,  is  gone; 

He  disappears,  nor  do  life's  billows  bear 

One  trace,  'tis  as  he  never  had  been  there. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART 

O  R 

vcim 


"Full  many  a  heart,  to  virtue  truly  wed, 

By  evil  tongues,  hath  broken  and  hath  bled;     A, 

Full  many  a  \ovely  girl,  to  grace  allied, 

By  slander's  dart,  hath  dwindled,,  droop'd  and  died  ; 

But. she  has  triumph'd  with  her  latest  breath," 

Ofer  evil  tongues,  o'ee  slander,  and  o'er  death. 

,  *  * 

•       * 

HE  incidents  comprised  in  ihe  following  touch- 
)ing  story,  I  obtained  from  a  very  respectable 
I  lady,  during  a  recent  visit,  with  some  friends, 
!to  West  Chester.  The  reader,  while  dropping 
a  tear  over  the  melancholy  fate  of  the  fair,  the 
beautiful,  the  virtuous  and  accomplished  Mary, 
(I  always  loved  that  gentle  name,)  may  be  assured 
that  every  line  of  this  history  of  her  short  and 
sad  life,  is  true;  the  name  only  is  fictitious.  The 
lady  who  related  it  to  me,  could  not  refrain  from 
weeping,  while  dwelling  with  emphasis  on  some 
of  the  scenes  in  the  life  of  this  lovely  and  inno- 
cent victim  of  persecution ;  and  when  she  de- 
picted the  hours  of  anguish  endured,  and  the 
death-bed  scene  of  the  heart-broken  one,  my 
own  bosom  swelled  with  emotion,  and  my  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  The  heart,  if  there  be  any,  that  can  hear  or  read 
without  emotion,  the  story  of  this  beautiful  and  blighted  young 
lady,  is  less  sensitive  than  my  own. 

Mary  Mandeville  was  the  daughter  of  poor  but  respectable  pa- 
rents, and  as  there  were  other  children  besides  herself,  she  sought 
every  opportunity  to  obtain  an  education,  by  which  she  might  be 
enabled  to  support  herself  genteelly.  This  she  accomplished,  and 
soon  obtained  a  situation  in  a  store,  for  which  she  was  found  qua- 
26 


202  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

lified  in  an  eminent  degree,  not  only  by  her  education,  but  by  her 
pleasing  and  persuasive  manners,  and  by  her  industry  and  attention 
to  business. 

I  have  said  that  Mary  was  beautiful;  and  I  state  it  not  only  on 
the  authority  of  a  lady,  but  on  that  of  several  gentlemen  who  knew 
her,  and  admired  her  for  her  mental  as  well  as  her  personal 
beauty.  Amiable,  affectionate,  modest  and  unassuming,  she  could 
not  but  be  beloved  by  all  who  could  appreciate  her  worth.  Her 
mind  she  had  cultivated  with  great  assiduity ;  so  passionately  fond  of 
literature,  particularly  poetry,  was  she,  that  her  leisure  hours  were 
almost  exclusively  devoted  to  gathering  garlands  from  the  Muses. 
This  fact  will  at  once  account  for  her  exquisite  sensibility  and  fine 
feeling,  for  the  very  fondness  for  poetry  is  an  evidence  of  the  pos- 
session of  taste,  of  refined  sentiment,  and  the  highest  and  holiest 
feelings  of  rtre  heart.  Show  me  a  person  who  evinces  a  repug- 
nance to  the  charms  of  the  Muses,  and  I  will  show  you  one  who 
is  deficient  in  taste,  in  refined  feelings,  and  exalted  sentiment. 
Many  a  time,  after  the  duties  of  the  day  were  done,  did  Mary 
Mandeville  sit  poring  over  some  sweet  poem  or  tale  of  romance, 
till  the  clock  struck  twelve,  and  the  midnight  lamp  began  to  wane; 
little  dreaming  that  her  own  future  history  would  be  as  romantic 
a  story  of  suffering  and  sorrow,  as  the  one  over  which  she  then 
shed  her  tears  of  sympathy. 

Mary  Mandeville  possessed  a  heart  that  was  alive  to  the  tender- 
est  feeling,  and  this,  conjoined  with  her  intelligent  mind,  bewitch- 
ing manners,  and  winning  ways,  made  her  a  universal  favorite. 
Her  society  was  courted,  both  by  the  graceful  and  the  gifted,  and 
she  found  a  ready  passport  to  the  most  refined  circles  in  her  native 
town.  Mary  was  constituted  by  nature,  to  be  happy,  and  she  was 
happy,  up  to  the  hour  when  slander  fixed  its  envenomed  fang  in 
her  innocent  heart.  A  smile,  when  she  met  her  friends,  was  ever 
playing  over  her  blooming  Cheeks,  like  sunlight  upon  roses,  and 
her  merry  voice  of  song  melted  on  the  enamored  ear,  like  the 
melody  of  some  shepherd's  lute,  when  it  dies  away  in  lingering 
echoes  over  the  bosom  of  a  lucid  lake. 

Though  Mary  had  sprung  from  humble  life,  she  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  conscious  of  her  worth;  for  she  had  ample  evi- 
dences of  it  around  her,  in  the  homage  that  was  paid  to  her  mental 
as  well  as  her  personal  beauty  by  the  gayest,  wealthiest  and  most 
gifted  young  gentlemen ;  in  the  admiration  that  was  awarded  to 
her  modest  and  accomplished  manners,  and  in  the  eagerness  with 
which  her  society  was  courted.  She  could  not  do  otherwise  than 


WRITINGS    OP    THE   MILFORD    BARD.  203 

feel  that  nature  had  been  lavish  of  her  gifts  to  her,  and  that  in 
point  of  mind  and  manners,  as  well  as  in  moral  worth,  she  was 
superior  to  the  great  mass  of  womankind;  but  let  it  not  be  sup- 
posed that  she  was  haughty,  or  played  the  foolish  airs  of  the 
coquette.  Far  from  it.  Sincerity  marked  her  every  word  and 
action;  she  was  affable,  polite  to  all,  and  deeply  affectionate  to 
those  who  shared  her  friendship.  Cheerful,  lively,  and  with  a  heart 
ever  attuned  to  joy,  sfie  had  never  yet  learned  to  shed  the  tear  of 
sorrow.  Admired  and  beloved  for  her  artlessness  and  innocence, 
life,  to  her,  was  a  scene  of  sunshine  and  flowers,  never  yet  dark- 
ened by  a  single  cloud. 

Such  was  the  happy  Mary  Mandeville,  during  the  greater  part 
of  the  time  that  she  was  performing  the  duties  of  a  clerk,  in  the 
store  of  Mr.  Whitefield.  The  proudest  young  gentlemen  of  the 
borough  were  pot  too  proud  to  bow  before  her  beagty,  and  it  was 
her  intelligence,  her  excellence  of  moral  character,  and  amiable 
disposition,  that  prompted  Mr.  Whitefield  to  give  her  a  situation 
in  his  store.  Mr.  Whitefield  was  a  gentleman  of  high  respecta- 
bility, who  possessed  a  soul  of  honor,  and  a  heart  alive  to  every 
generous  feeling.  He  saw  in  Mary  many  estimable  qualities, 
worthy  of  his  admiration,  (not  that  of  love,  for  he  had  long  been  a 
married  man,)  and  he  thought  he  was  only  doing  justice  to  a  de- 
serving young  lady,  in  giving  her  a  situation  in  his  employment,  by 
which  she  could  support  herself  genteelly.  He  was  happy,  in  thus 
doing  his  duty  towards  a  poor  girl  who  had  no  one  to  befriend  her 
pecuniarily ;  and  Mary  was  happy,  too,  in  being  able,  through  the 
kindness  of  her  benefactor,  to  relieve  her  family  of  the  burthen  of 
her  support.  She  felt  a  deep  sense  of  the  obligation  she  was 
under  to  Mr.  Whitefield,  and  her  gratitude  knew  no  bounds.  He 
was  a  generous  and  liberal  man,  and  so  much  did  her  amiability 
and  thankfulness  win  upon  his  esteem,  that  he  felt  for  her  all  the 
regard  that  he  would  have  felt  for  a  sister,  and,  in  the  name  of  a 
sister,  he  made  her  many  presents,  in  consideration  of  her  atten- 
tion to  business,  and  her  constant,  assiduous  efforts  to  further  his 
interest.  She  was  faithful  and  industrious  in  his  service,  and  he 
considered  what  he  gave  her  but  the  meet  reward  of  her  worth. 
But,  alas!  these  rewards  of  her  merit  were  to  be  made,  by  evil 
tongues,  in  future,  the  means  of  her  ruin ;  these  very  tokens  of 
her  worth,  were  to  become  daggers  in  her  despair. 

Among  the  many  admirers,  who  bowed  down  before  her  beauty, 
there  was  one  for  whom  she  retained  a  deep  and  lasting  re- 
gard. It  was  not  the  passion  of  a  moment.  Whilst  engaged  in 


204  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  store  of  Mr.  Whitefield,  there  were  many  young  men,  some 
of  them  of  the  haut  ton  and  beau  monde,  who  paid  attention  to 
her;  but,  among  them  all,  she  felt  a  predilection  for  Henry  Bran- 
don, a  young  man  of  respectability,  and  good  moral  character. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Whitefield,  who  considered  himself  the  guardian  of 
Mary,  would  not  permit  her,  unadvised,  to  receive  attention  from 
any  other  than  an  upright  young  man,  whom  he  considered  worthy 
to  be  the  husband  of  the  virtuous,  intelligent,  and  lovely  Mary. 
So  particular  was  he  in  guarding  her  from  being  intruded  upon 
by  the  unworthy,  that  he  never  suffered  her  to  go  home,  late  at  night, 
unattended.  Mary  felt  that  he  was  her  guardian,  and  she  was 
grateful  for  his  kindness  in  shielding  her  from  harm,  and  for  re- 
vealing to  her  the  characters  of  those  who  were  attracted  by  her 
superior  charms.  Often  when  speaking  of  the  intelligence,  beauty, 
virtue  and  amiable  disposition  of  Mary,  has  Mr.  Whitefield  been 
heard,  with  enthusiasm,  to  exclaim,  "  Blest,  thrice  blest,  will  the 
young  man  be,  who  wooes  and  wins  that  sweet  girl  to  be  his 
wife;  and  woe,  eternal  woe,  be  to  him,  who  would  be  so  mean, 
so  base,  so  demon-like,  as  to  win  her,  to  betray  her  confiding 
heart." 

So  much  did  he  feel  like  a  brother;  so  much  did  he  become 
interested  in  her  welfare ;  that  he  declared  vengeance  to  him  who 
should  ever  harm  a  hair  of  her  head.  Who,  indeed,  would  not 
have  taken  a  deep  interest  in  so  beautiful,  so  gefitle,  so  amiable, 
so  affectionate,  and,  withal,  so  grateful  a  creature  as  Mary  Mande- 
ville?  So  innocent,  so  harmless,  so  affectionate,  was  she;  so 
much,  and  so  sincerely  did  she  love  the  whole  human  race,  that 
she  could  not  have  been  induced  to  believe  that  there  was  a  single 
being  on  the  earth  who  would  be  so  cruel  as  to  injure  her.  So 
fine  were  her  feelings,  and  so  tender  was  her  heart,  that  she  could 
not  read  a  pathetic  tale  of  fiction  without  shedding  tears  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  sorrows  described  in  it. 

Mary  acquired,  while  in  the  store,  so  nice  a  judgment  of  the 
quality  of  goods,  that,  at  her  request,  Mr.  Whitefield  took  her  with 
him  to  Philadelphia,  to  assist  in  selecting  such  articles  as  he  wanted 
for  his  sales.  Wherever  she  went,  she  elicited  the  same  admira- 
tion, respect,  and  regard  for  her  intelligent  conversation,  and 
amiable  manners,  to  say  nothing  of  her  personal  beauty,  as  she 
did  at  home,  for  her  charms  were  calculated  to  win  friends  and 
golden  opinions  in  any  circle  of  society. 

In  company  with  Henry,  she  spent  many  hours  in  reading 
elegant  authors,  and  conversing  on  their  respective  merits.  The 

'  ** 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  205 

hours  flew  by  on  golden  wings,  when  thus  engaged;  and  the  little 
god  of  love  was  busy  in  fixing  his  arrows  in  both  their  hearts. 
Evening  after  evening  did  Henry  repair  to  the  happy  home  of 
Mary,  and  more  and  more  rapidly  did  the  hours  seem  to  fly  away; 
for  the  oftener  he  saw  her,  the  more  he  loted  her.  One  evening, 
after  the  books  had  been  laid  aside,  he  took  her  small  white  hand 
in  his,  and  said — 

"  Mary,  there  is  something  I  wish,  and  yet  fear  to  say  to  you." 

Mary's  gaiety  and  liveliness  immediately  forsook  her,  for  she 
saw  an  expression  of  anxiety  in  the  eye  of  Henry. 

"  Why  should  you  fear,"  said  she,  "  to  say  any  thing  that  is  civil 
to  me,  Henry?  I  hope  you  are  not  afraid  of  me." 

"  No,  dearest  Mary,  I  am  not  afraid  of  you ;  but  I  am  afraid  of 
offending  you  by  what  I  have  to  say.  Will  you  promise  me  not 
to  be  offended?" 

A  slight  blush  suffused  the  cheek  of  the  fair  girl,  as  she  threw 
back  her  lovely  locks,  and  replied,  "  Henry,  I  have  long  known 
you,  and  I  know  that  you  would  not  say  any  thing  offensive  to 
a  lady;  and  I  can,  therefore,  on  the  faith  of* that,  say  that  I  will 
not  be  offended." 

"Then,  Mary,  I  love  you,"  said  Henry,  embarrassed. 

"Indeed!  and  is  that  all,  Henry?  Why  there  is  nothing  crimi- 
nal in  loving  any  one — why  should  you  fear  to  avow  a  thing  so 
natural  and  common?"  interrogated  Mary,  with  a  smile,  as  her  face 
colored. 

"  But  ah!  deares't  Mary,  do  you  love  me?  That  is  what  I  feared 
to  ask;  for  of  all  things  on  this  side  of  the  grave,  there  is  nothing 
so  severe,  as 

'To  love,  and  find  no  fond  return.'" 

"  True  Henry,"  returned  the  gentle  Mary,  as  she  bent  on  him  a 
pair  of  the  most  bewitching  eyes  in  the  world,  and  again  blushed. 
"  It  must  be  severe  to  the  heart  of  sensibility  to 

'Love  and  be  not  loved  again.'"  • 

"  But  that  is  not  answering  the  question,"  said  Henry,  in  a 
melancholy  tone,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  as  he  cast  his  eyes  on  the 
floor. 

"Well,  then,  Henry,  to  be  candid  with  you,  I  have  long  held 
you  in  high  respect,  and  now  feel  a  deep  interest  in  your  welfare. 
Indeed  I  can  never  do  less;  for  Mr.  Whitefield,  whom  I  look  upon 
ffe  •'"•'• 


206  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

as  my  disinterested  friend  and  guardian,  has  spoken  of  you  in  the 
highest  terms." 

"Nay,  nay,  now,  dearest  Mary,  speak  to  the  point;  I  cannot 
be  satisfied  with  that,  which  you  would  express  for  any  friend. 
Speak  to  the  point — do  you  love  me  or  not?" 

"I  do,  then — there,  will  that  satisfy  you?"  and  Mary  looked  up 
timidly,  with  a  smile  and  a  sweet  expression  of  the  eye,  that  told 
too  truly  that  she  spoke  the  truth. 

There  is  a  silent  language  in  the  eye  of  woman,  that  cannot  be 
mistaken,  for  it  speaks  to  the  heart  of  him  she  loves,  with  an  irre- 
sistible eloquence.  It  is  a  language  that  is  understood  by  the  most 
ignorant,  as  well  as  the  most  learned,  and  in  one  glance  the  heart 
may  read  a  volume.  That  language,  when  spoken  in  tears,  hath 
an  eloquence  more  sublime  than  any  that  ever  fell  from  the  lips. 

Though  on  the  tongue  there  may  be  guile, 
(That  oft  in  flattery's  words  appears,) 

And  cold  deceit  in  every  smile, 
There  is  no  treachery  in  tears. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  pleasurable  emotions 
that  rilled  the  heart  of  Henry,  when  the  fair  girl,  with  that  frank- 
ness which  characterised  her,  avowed  her  love.  Falling  upon 
one  knee  before  her,  and  clasping  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  he  ex- 
exclaimed — 

"God  bless  you,  dearest  Mary,  for  those  blessed  words,  that  have 
given  me  more  real  happiness  than  the  possession  of  the  world 
could  confer,  though  it  were  one  huge  diamond." 

The  Cynic  may  sneer,  and  the  Stoic  look  with  cold  contempt 
on  him  who  bows  down  in  adoration  at  the  shrine  of  beauty ;  but 
nevertheless,  it  is  no  mean  triumph  to  win  the  heart  of  an  affec- 
tionate and  virtuous  woman.  Courtship  is  undoubtedly  the  hap- 
piest period  of  the  life  of  man  or  woman,  and  few  there  are  who 
do  not,  in  the  evening  of  existence,  look  back  to  it  with  a  pleas- 
ing, melancholy  regret,  as  a  green  spot,  an  oasis,  on  the  waste  of 
memory.  *  - 

"You  seem  to  be  indulging  in  a  reverie,"  ^aid  Mary,  as  Henry 
looked  up,  and  saw  a  large  round  tear  just  stealing  From  under  her 
long  silken  eye-lashes,  and  rolling  down  her  fair  chegk,  on  which 
the  roses  of  eighteen  summers  bloomed. 

"Ah!  yes,  you  angel  of  the  earth,"  answered  Henry,  "I  was 
indulging  in  a  delicious  dream  of  future  days." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  207 

"And  pray,  sir,  what  was  the  purport  of  your  luxurious  dream?" 
playfully  enquired  the  fair  girl. 

"Oh!  I  fancied  that  I  had  wooed  and  won  the  lovely  Mary 
Mandeville,  and,  when  you  spoke,  I  was  enjoying  the  inexpres- 
sible pleasure  of  standing  with  her  at  the  altar.  Oh !  Mary,  Hea- 
ven send  the  day  when  I  shall,  in  reality,  lead  you  to  the  altar,  and 
can  say,  in  triumph, 

'  You  are  my  own,  my  own  for  life. ' " 

"  Why,  Henry,"  said  Mary,  "I  wonder  that  you  think  of  a  poor 
simple  girl  like  me,  when  there  is  many  a  high-born,  talented,  and 
elegantly  educated  young  lady,  whose  fortunes  and  affections  a 
young  man  like  you  might  win.  I'm  sure  you  would  be  much 
happier  with  such  an  one,  between  whose  soul  and  your  own 
there  would  be  a  mutual  communion.  Do  you  not  think  so?"  and 
she  bent  on  him  a  searching  glance  from  her  angelic  eye,  that  be- 
trayed every  word  she  had  uttered. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  returned  Henry,  with  emphasis.  "I  have 
ever  observed  that  high-born  ladies,  as  you  call  them,  who  are 
educated  in  all  the  cold  conventional  forms  of  society,  are  haughty 
in  their  demeanor;  formal  and  repulsive  in  their  manners,  and 
deficient  in  sentiment,  as  well  as  sensibility.  Ladies  of  the  haul 
ton,  whose  heads  have  been  crammed  with  learned  lumber;  who 
have  acquired  a  character  for  talent,  and  whose  reasoning  powers 
are  as  talkative  as  the  Barber  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  are  as  cold 
as  the  snows  on  the  Alleghanies.  Reason  and  Love  never  could, 
and  never  will  a^rfee,  and  just  in  proportion  as  reason  predominates 
over  the  mind  of  a  lady,  she  becomes  masculine,  and  loses  those 
gentle,  affectionate,  feminine  graces,  which  are  so  much  admired 
by  our  sex.  Give  me  a  girl  whose  soul  is  all  simplicity,  unpolluted 
by  the  conventional  forms  and  notions  of  society.  T  prefer  the 
native  simplicity  of  the  wild  flower  of  the  field,  to  the  more  gor- 
geous, but  less  sweet  one,  that  has  been  forced  in  the  hot-house." 

"Oh!  Mary,  Mary,  there's  a  fortune-teller  on  the  street,"  said 
a  little  girl,  who  carne  running  into  the  room.  "You  said  you 
wanted  your  fortune  told — let  me  call  her  in." 

"  ObJ  ye»|"  exclaimed  the  lively  Mary,  "  let's  have  our  fortunes 
told — call  her  in,  Lucy." 

"Is  it  possible  you  believe  in  such  nonsense?"  asked  Henry. 

"No,  indeed,  Henry,  I  believe  in  no  such  folly;  but  her  stories 
will  be  a  source  of  amusement,  besides  putting  a  penny  in  the 


208  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

poor  creature's  pocket,"  answered  Mary,  as  she  laughed  heartily 
and  threw  a  bewitching  glance  at  her  lover. 

"  But  you  are  encouraging  idleness,  Mary." 

"Oh!  well,  never  mind  that,  in  a  poor,  old  decrepid  woman, 
who  is  unable  to  work — but  hush,  here  she  comes;  poor  old 
creature!"  and  again  Mary  laughed  at  the  idea  of  having  her 
fortune  told,  though  in  truth  she  was  like  many  others,  a  little 
superstitious. 

"  Bring  me  a  coffee  cup,  Miss,"  commanded  the  old  woman, 
"and  some  coffee  grounds,  if  you  have  any!" 

Mary  went  tittering  to  the  cupboard,  and  brought  them. 

"  You  need  not  laugh,"  said  the  old  woman,  in  a  hollow,  sepul- 
chral tone,  and  with  a  solemnity  that  checked  Mary's  mirth,  "  I 
shall  tell  you  the  truth,  and  it  may  be  something  that  you  may  have 
cause  to  weep  over  yet." 

"  What  do  you  see?"  enquired  the  fair  girl,  unable  to  suppress 
a  smile,  as  the  old  woman  turned  the  cup  round  and  round  in  her 
hand,  and  pronounced  some  mysterious  words. 

"You  are,  or  will  be  addressed  by  a  young  man,  who  will — let 
me  see,  there  is  another  character.  Yes,  he  will  woo  you,  and 
win  your  hand,  with  the  consent  of  the  third  person,  who  appears 
to  have  been  your  benefactor  and  best  friend." 

"Shall  we  be  married?"  asked  Mary,  as  she  archly  looked  up 
into  the  face  of  Henry,  and  smiled. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Miss,  there  are  clouds  passing,  and,  though 
you  are  now  happy,  there  appears  to  be  misery  in  store  for  you." 

"  What  is  it?"  enquired  Mary,  in  a  little  more  serious  tone,  at 
the  same  time  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  enchanted  cup. 

"I  cannot  exactly  see,"  answered  the  fortune-teller,  " but  you 
will  suffer  much  distress  of  mind,  and  shed  many  tears." 

"  But  will  I  be  married?"  she  again  asked,  at  the  same  time  en- 
deavoring to  become  more  cheerful. 

"  No,  you  will  never  marry ;  but  it  will  be  your  own  fault." 

"  Oh!  well,  I  shall  have  the  whip  in  my  own  hand,"  said  Mary, 
forcing  a  smile,  which  did  not  spring  from  mirth. 

"You  will  suffer  great  distress  of  mind,"  continued  the  fortune- 
teller, "  though  you  will  be  entirely  innocent  of  that  over  which 
you  will  sigh  and  weep  many  a  bitter  night." 

The  gay  and  cheerful  girl  had,  at  this  juncture,  become  quite 
serious  ;  her  bright  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  the  cup.  The  fact  that 
the  fortune-teller  had  hit  several  parts  of  her  history,  staggered 
her,  and  cold  chills  crept  over  her. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  209 

"Do  you  see  any  thing  more?"  enquired  Mary. 

"Yes.  The  very  man  who  is  your  friend  and  benefactor,  will 
be  made  the  innocent  cause  of  all  your  woes." 

"  Strange!"  ejaculated  Mary,  as  a  shudder  run  over  her. 

"Ha!  I  see  it!  I  see  it!"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  old  woman. 

"  See  what?"  asked  Mary,  as  she  started  from  her  seat. 

"  I  see  a  wounded  and  bleeding  heart,  and  something  in  the 
distance,  which  I  cannot  distinguish.  Ah !  now  I  see,"  said  she, 
after  a  pause,  "  it  is  a  long  funeral  procession." 

"Oh!  forbear!"  exclaimed  the  affrighted  girl,  on  whose  imagi- 
nation the  old  woman's  incantation  had  wrought  a  spell.  "  For- 
bear for  mercy's  sake!"  and  she  clung  to  Henry,  while  her  lips 
quivered,  and  her  face  became  pale  as  the  sheeted  dead. 

"Dear  Mary,"  said  Henry,  "be  not  alarmed  at  such  nonsense. 
It  was  wrong  in  you  to  encourage  such  trickery." 

"  Say  not  so,  Henry — I  thought  so  myself,  at  first.  You  do  not 
know  how  true  many  things  she  told  me  which  have  taken  place, 
and  I  sincerely  believe,  now,  that  the  rest  will  come  to  pass." 

"Nonsense,  Mary,  discharge  it  from  your  mind,  and  when  we 
meet  again  you  will  be  ready  to  laugh  at  your  folly.  Your  fears  are 
but  bugbears  of  the  brain;  mere  creatures  of  the  imagination,  that 
will  disappear  before  the  light  of  reason." 

The  hour  was  growing  late,  and  Henry  took  his  hat  and  bade 
her  good  night.  In  vain  did  the  now  gloomy  girl  endeavor  to 
reason  away  the  prophecies  of  the  fortune-teller.  The  more  she 
thought  of  the  circumstances  she  had  described  so  truly,  the  more 
did  she  believe  that  all  would  prove  true. 

When  Mary  retired  to  her  chamber,  she  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed,  and  endeavored  to  reason  away  the  gloomy  thoughts,  which 
the  fortune-teller's  prophecies  had  caused  to  take  possession  of 
her  mind. 

''There  must  be  truth  in  what  I  have  heard,"  thought  she,  "or 
else  the  old  woman  had  some  mysterious  power,  by  which  she  has 
put  a  spell  upon  me.  How  did  she  know  that  I  had  a  friend  and 
benefactor,  and  that  I  was,  or  would  be  addressed  by  a  gentleman, 
who  would  win  my  affections?  And  then  she  seemed  to  see  the 
very  clouds  that  were  gathering  over  my  mind.  But  how  is  my 
friend  to  become  the  means  of  all  the  distress  that  I  am  to  endure? 
there  is  surely  something  strange  in  the  matter.  Oh !  how  in 
the  world  could  she  have  thought  of  the  wounded  and  bleeding 
heart,  and  the  funeral  procession,  if  there  had  not  been  something 
in  it?  I  shudder  when  I  think  of  it,  and,  somehow  or  other,  I 
27 


210  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

have  had  a  presentiment,  for  some  time,  that  something  was  going 
to  happen.  I  thought  I  had  been  too  happy,  of  late,  for  it  to  last 
long.  Heaven  grant  that  the  fate  she  foretold,  may  not  befall  me! 
But  I  can't  help  thinking  of  the  bleeding  heart — funeral  proces- 
sion— black  hearse — mourning — " 

At  this  juncture  of  musing,  that  delicious  dreaminess  and  con- 
fusion of  the  senses  that  precedes  sleep,  came  over  her;  her  bril- 
liant and  beautiful  eyes,  which  had  been  fixed  on  the  shadowy 
wall,  gradually  closed,  and  she  fell  into  a  slumber.  She  had  not 
long  indulged,  ere  that  hag  of  the  night,  the  night-mare,  appeared! 
Her  beautiful  head  was  thrown  back  over  her  pillow,  over  which 
streamed  the  rich  profusion  of  her  unbound  hair,  and  her  spirit 
wandered  in  the  land  of  dreams.  But  her's  was  not  a  dream  of 
love  and  happiness,  though  love  was  mingled  with  it.  She  fancied 
that  she  was  addressed  by  a  gay,  young  man ;  that  she  was  beloved, 
and  loved  in  return;  that  her  hand  was  solicited  in  marriage;  but, 
when  she  was  about  to  give  it,  a  dark  spirit  appeared  before  her, 
and  bade  her  forbear,  at  the  same  holding  up  before  her  a  wounded 
and  bleeding  heart.  She  heard  voices  denouncing  her  fair  fame — 
she  was  pursued  by  many  phantoms,  and  when  she  fled  for  pro- 
tection to  her  friend  and  benefactor,  she  found  that  he  could  not 
protect  her.  The  fortune-teller  appeared  before  her. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  the  truth?"  said  she.  "Though  innocent, 
you  are  doomed  to  die,  but  not  without  torture.  Your  anguish 
will  be  too  great  for  human  endurance.  See!  yonder  comes  your 
own  funeral  procession." 

Mary  looked  in  the  direction  the  withered  finger  pointed,  and 
so  great  was  her  terror,  that  with  one  effort  of  volition  she  awoke, 
shuddering  and  trembling  in  every  limb. 

The  next  morning,  when  she  appeared  at  the  breakfast  table, 
she  related  her  dream,  and  expressed  herself  satisfied  that  some- 
thing would  happen,  to  mar  her  happiness.  In  vain  did  her  friends 
endeavor  to  obliterate  from  her  mind  this  idea.  When  she  returned 
to  the  store,  she  related  to  her  friends  and  companions  the  story 
of  the  fortune-teller,  and  the  substance  of  her  dream,  and,  with  a 
solemn  countenance,  avowed  that  something  would  happen. 
Though  it  was  a  subject  of  mirth  and  ridicule  to  them,  at  which 
they  laughed  heartily,  she  still  maintained  the  belief  that  the  days 
of  her  happiness  were  nearly  ended,  and  that  the  fortune-teller's 
prophecies  would  all  prove  true.  So  much  was  her  mind  prepos- 
sessed with  the  idea,  that,  in  a  great  measure,  she  lost  her  gaiety 
and  cheerfulness. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  211 

Time  passed  on,  and  nothing  transpired  to  keep  alive  the  re- 
membrance of  the  fortune-teller's  story;  but  Mary  had  not  forgot- 
ten one  single  incident. 

"Well,  Mary,"  said  Emma  Stransbury,  one  beautiful  morning 
in  August,  as  she  stopped  at  the  store,  "  the  fortune-teller's  pro- 
phecy has  not  been  verified  yet?" 

"  No,"  said  Mary,  "  but  as  the  Augur  said  to  Ccesar,  the  Ides  of 
March  are  not  passed  yet." 

"  You'll  forget  it,  Mary,  in  the  election  times,  when  nothing  is 
talked  of  but  the  candidates." 

"And  if  she  don't,"  added  Mr.  Whitefield,  "she  will,  when  she 
is  married  to  that  nice  young  man  that  you  wot  of,  Emma." 

Mary  blushed,  and  Emma  left  the  store. 

At  the  time  of  which  we  speak,  there  was  an  election  on  hand, 
and  Mr.  Whitefield  was  a  candidate.  Party  spirit  ran  high;  some 
degrees  above  blood-heat:  and,  as  usual,  every  thing,  derogatory 
to  the  character  of  the  different  candidates,  was  raked  up  from  the 
kennel  of  defamation.  Every  thing,  that  was  calculated  to  injure 
the  candidate,  and  prevent  his  election,  was  gathered  or  invented 
by  his  opponents,  and  vice  versa.  Thus  far,  there  was  not  much 
harm  done;  but  alas!  in  this  case  the  candidates  were  not  the 
only  sufferers  in  point  of  character.  The  peace,  the  happiness  of 
one,  who  was  totally  unconnected  with  the  election,  was  wrecked, 
blighted  forever;  and  a  dagger  planted  in  the  hearts  of  her  friends, 
the  wound  from  which  can  never  be  healed.  The  bleeding  heart 
was,  indeed,  to  be  realized. 

Oh  God !  would  that  I  could  cover,  as  with  a  mantle,  the  re- 
membrance of  the  fate  of  the  unhappy  Mary  Mandeville!  Ah! 
what  a  sudden  transition  did  she  experience  from  the  brightest 
bliss,  to  the  darkest  despair !  Graced  with  every  thing  that  could 
render  her  lovely,  the  landscape  of  life  arose  before  her  in  all  the 
brightness  and  beauty  of  sunshine  and  flowers.  Charming  indeed 
was  the  prospect  that  opened  before  her,  destined  to  be  oversha- 
dowed with  clouds  and  darkness! 

Mary  had,  one  evening,  been  to  a  party,  where  she  had  enjoyed 
much  pleasure,  and  had  been  much  admired  for  her  beautiful 
simplicity,  and  brilliant  conversation.  She  was  in  high  spirits,  in 
remembrance  of  her  triumphs  that  evening,  and  was  gaily  singing 
a  favorite  song,  when  her  friend  Emma  Stransbury  entered. 

"Oh!  Mary,  how  can  you  be  so  lively  at  such  a  timer"  enquired 
Emma,  with  a  look  of  astonishment. 


212  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"At  such  a  time?  Why? — what  do  you  mean,  Emma?"  asked 
Mary,  with  a  look  of  still  greater  astonishment. 

"  Why  have  you  not  heard  the  report  concerning  you  ?" 

"Oh  no,— what  is  it?" 

The  tender-hearted  Emma  covered  her  face,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Mary,  indeed,  indeed  I  cannot  tell  you ;  but  for  the  world  I 
would  not  that  it  should  have  been  so." 

"For  mercy's  sake  tell  me  what  the  report  concerning  me  is?" 
Mary  said  imploringly,  as  she  trembled,  and  the  recollection  of  the 
fortune-teller  rushed  to  her  mind.  "Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  keep 
me  a  moment  longer  in  this  terrible  suspense." 

"Oh  !  how  can  I  become,"  exclaimed  Emma,  with  an  agonizing 
sigh,  "the  executioner  of  your  hopes  and  happiness!  But  you 
ought — " 

"Tell  me!  tell  me!  for  mercy's  sake!"  screamed  Mary. 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear,  and  though  it  is  painful  to  me  to  be  the 
bearer  of  such  tidings,  you  shall  hear." 

Emma,  still  weeping,  paused  a  moment  to  overcome  her  emo- 
tions. The  rich  bloom  had  suddenly  fled  from  the  fair  cheek  of 
Mary,  and  she  stood,  trembling  like  a  leaf  agitated  by  the  breeze, 
anxious,  yet  fearing  to  hear  the  ominous  intelligence.  Scarcely 
less  acute  were  the  feelings  of  Emma,  than  those  of  her  friend ; 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  about  to  pronounce  the  death-warrant 
of  one  whom  she  dearly  loved,  and  one,  too,  who  was  entirely 
innocent  of  the  breach  of  any  and  every  obligation. 

"  Do  you  remember,  Mary,"  began  Emma,  in  a  tremulous  tone, 
not  knowing  how  to  begin  disclosures,  "of  having  ever  been  seen 
late  at  night  in  company  with  any  gentleman?" 

"  Oh!  yes,  many  times,"  replied  Mary  with  her  usual  frankness, 
and  catching  the  idea,  "  when  engaged  late  at  the  store,  Mr. 
Whitefield  often  attended  me  home,  rather  than  suffer  me  to  go 
alone  in  the  dark;  but  what  harm  was  there  in  that?" 

"  Oh!  none,  none  in  the  world,  my  dear  Mary,  it  is  the  duty  of 
a  gentleman  to  protect  a  lady  at  all  times,"  continued  Emma,  by 
way  of  soothing  the  feelings  of  her  friend,  "  but  more  particularly 
late  at  night,  when  she  is  likely  to  be  insulted.  You  know  it  is 
the  custom  in  time  of  elections,  to  rake  up  every  thing  they  can 
against  the  character  of  the  candidates,  and  so  rancorous  is  the 
spirit  of  party  politics,  that  where  nothing  can  be  found  that  is 
true,  they  will  invent  or  fabricate  tales  to  injure  and  prevent  the 
election  of  the  opposing  candidate.  Don't  tremble  so,  my  dear; 
the  story  is  all  a  mere  fabrication." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  213 

Oh!"  exclaimed  Mary,  wringing  her  hands,  "I  see  it  all  as  the 
fortune-teller  told  me,  and  it  matters  not  whether  it  is  true  or  not — 
you  know  the  way  of  the  world  is  to  condemn,  right  or  wrong, 
guilty  or  not  guilty.  Emma,  Emma,  my  peace  of  mind  is  gone 
forever — my  character,  which  is  dearer  to  me  than  life,  is  blasted — 
I  shall  be  pointed  at  by  the  ringer  of  scorn." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  Jbands,  and  shuddered. 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  her  sympathizing  friend,  "  the  public  will  see 
the  motive;  the  people  will  discover  that  the  story  was  an  idle 
rumor,  without  foundation,  merely  got  up,  as  is  usual,  to  prevent 
the  election  of  a  candidate.  The  best  way  is  to  pay  no  attention 
to  it;  laugh  at  it;  treat  it  with  contempt." 

"Ah,  Emma,"  returned  her  friend,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "you 
know  not  the  ways  of  the  world;  you  know  not  the  desperate 
wickedness  of  the  human  heart;  you  know  not  with  what  avidity 
human  nature,  cannibal-like,  seizes  on  the  mangled  character  of 
its  own  kind.  You  do  not  know  with  what  a  morbid  appetite 
people  greedily  feast  on  ruined  reputation,  and  it  matters  not 
whether  there  is  any  foundation  for  the  rumor  which  consigns  a 
fellow-being  to  ruin.  Human  nature  is  prone  to  evil  and  rejoice 
in  the  ruin  of  others,  and  a  tale  of  scandal,  however  improbable, 
is  seized  on  with  avidity,  and  retailed  with  pleasure;  while  one 
which  redounds  to  the  character,  is  passed  by  in  silence.  Truly 
did  Shakspeare  say — 

'The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them, 
Whilst  the  good  is  oft  interred  with  their  bones.'" 

"Very  true,"  rejoined  Emma,  "A  homely  proverb  says,  when 
a  person  is  going  down  hill,  every  one  gives  him  a  kick;  but,  my 
dear,  your  case  is  very  different.  There  is  not  the  shadow  of  a 
foundation  of  the  rumor  about  you — it  is  merely  an  electioneering 
story,  which  will  be  viewed  as  such,  and  will  pass  away  with  the 
remembrance  of  the  election.  Believe  me,  they  are  mere  idle 
rumors  floating  about  the  community." 

"  Oh!  deceive  not  yourself,  dear  Emma!"  exclaimed  the  weep- 
ing Mary,  "  the  first  breath  of  that  rumor  sounded  the  knell  of  all 
my  hopes  and  happiness.  But  go  on — let  me  hear  the  worst,  for 
it  must  come  soon  or  late." 

"Where  it  originated,  Mary,"  continued  Emma,  "  I  do  not 
know;  but  I  will  do  the  originator  the  justice  to  say,  that  I  believe 
the  object  to  have  been  alone  for  political  effect,  or  to  prevent  the 
election  of  Mr.  Whitefield.  I  cannot  believe  that  there  could  have 


214  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

been  any  concerted  plan  to  injure  you,  an  innocent  girl,  wholly 
unconnected  with  politics.  The  first  intimation  I  heard  of  the 
matter  was  the  other  evening,  while  sitting  with  my  book  at  the 
window,  the  blinds  of  which  concealed  me  from  view.  Several 
gentlemen  were  standing  on  the  pave,  when  one  observed  that  it 
was  a  pity  such  a  report  was  circulated.  As  I  had  not  intended 
to  eave-drop,  I  sat  still,  and  heard  him  answer  to  an  interrogatory, 
that  the  story  had  gone  abroad  that  there  was  too  much  intimacy 
between  Miss  Mary  Mandeville  and  Mr.  Whitefield.  Much  more 
was  said  concerning  your  trip  to  Philadelphia,  and  evening  walks; 
but  I  will  not  pain  you  by  the  recital." 

Emma  raised  her  eyes,  as  she  spoke  the  last  words,  and  saw 
that  the  face  of  Mary  was  pale,  and  that  she  was  trembling  vio- 
lently. In  a  moment,  had  she  not  caught  her,  she  would  have 
fallen  to  the  floor,  so  much  was  she  agitated.  When  placed  in  a 
chair,  she  said  faintly — 

"  I  knew  it — it  will  be  just  as  the  fortune-teller  said.  I  have 
seen  some  happy,  some  bright  days  in  this  world ;  but  they  are 
gone  forever.  I  little  thought  that  the  circumstance  of  a  gentle- 
man seeing  me  home  at  night,  would  be  thus  misrepresented ; 
but  such  is  my  fate.  Not  only  will  it  blight  my  fair  name,  but  all 
my  prospects  in  life." 

"  How  so,  Mary?" 

"  You  are  my  friend,  my  only  friend  now,"  replied  the  unhappy 
Mary,  "  and  I  will  confide  all  to  you.  In  the  first  place  I  must 
relinquish  my  situation  in  the  store,  and  lose  my  means  of  sup- 
port." 

"  No — there  is  no  necessity  for  that." 

"Oh!  yes;  for,  otherwise,  they  might  think  there  is  truth  in 
the  report,  and  then  how  could  I  face  persons  who  came  in,  who 
would  be  sure  to  gaze  at  me,  from  curiosity  excited  by  the  story. 
Suppose  I  were  to  step  behind  the  counter  to  wait  on  some  lady, 
and  she  were  to  turn  away  in  scorn!  Oh!  the  very  thought  is 
agonizing.  You  do  not  know,  Emma,  that  I  have  been  addressed 
by,  and  am  now  pledged  in  marriage  to  Henry  Brandon,  from 
which  union  I  promised  myself  years  of  happiness;  but  alas!  the 
dream  is  ended — I  shall  never  be  the  wife  of  Henry." 

"  Say  not  so,  Mary — he  will  not  credit  such  idle  electioneering 
rumors,  and  will  make  them  no  objections." 

"  But  I  must,  Emma.  Oh!  how  my  heart  aches  at  this  cruel 
blow!  Little  did  she  or  he  know  who  first  whispered  the  scandal, 
what  a  dagger  it  would  be  to  an  innocent  breast.  Oh!  what  mo- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  215 

ments  of  misery  are  in  store  for  me  !  How  careful  people  should 
be,  in  breathing  aught  that  can  taint  the  character  of  others! 
Never  were  words  truer  than  those  of  the  poet, 

'  Full  many  a  shaft  at  random  sent, 

Finds  mark  the  archer  little  meant ; 
And  many  a  word  at  random  spoken, 

May  soothe  or  wound  a  heart  that's  broken.'" 

Tears  gushed  from  Mary's  eyes,  as  she  grasped  the  hand  of 
Emma,  and  sighed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"  But  you,  Emma,"  she  continued,  "  you  will  not  forsake  me, 
though  scorned  by  the  world.  I  have  ever  found  in  you  a  friend, 
who  shared  my  joys  and  sympathized  in  my  sorrows." 

"  Yes,  I  will  be  your  friend,  Mary,  though  all  others  forsake 
you;  but  do  not  let  your  feeling  and  your  fears  overcome  you; 
cheer  up,  and  believe  me,  it  will  all  blow  over." 

"Do  not  deceive  yourself,  Emma;  it  is  the  wish  and  the  will 
of  the  world  to  believe  whatever  is  evil,  or  has  a  tendency  to  injure 
the  character.  There  is  a  tendency  in  human  nature  to  evil,  which 
is  plainly  observable  in  childhood,  and  you  know  how  readily 
people  grasp  at  any  thing  which  is  derogatory  to  the  character  of 
another." 

"This  is  all  very  true,  my  dear,"  replied  Emma,  "but  when  I 
see  you  again,  I  hope  you  will  think  better  of  it.  There  is  no 
one,  I  am  satisfied,  who  would  intentionally  injure  so  innocent 
and  harmless  a  creature  as  you  are;  and  I  am  sure  that  these  idle 
rumors  will  soon  pass  away,  and  with  them  the  cloud  that  now 
darkens  your  mind.  So  farewell,  dear,  for  the  present — may  hap- 
pier days  soon  dawn," 

"  Farewell,  Emma,"  returned  Mary,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to 
be  the  echo  of  a  sad  heart. 

Emma  departed,  and  left  Mary  to  reflect  on  what  she  had 
heard  ;  for  Emma,  to  spare  her  feelings,  through  pity,  had  disclosed 
but  part  of  the  rumor.  Tt  was  not  long  before  others  dropped  in 
to  relate  what  they  had  heard  of  the  stories  in  circulation,  always 
adding  a  little,  till  poor  Mary  was  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on 
distraction.  The  consciousness  that  she  was  entirely  innocent 
of  all  and  every  charge,  would  have  supported  her,  but  for  the 
knowledge  that  the  world  is  disposed  to  believe  whatever  has  a 
tendency  to  injure  character.  The  whole  story  had  been  gotten 
up  for  political  effect,  and  in  the  attempt  to  defeat  the  election  of 
Mr.  Whitefield,  the  character  of  an  amiable,  talented  and  beauti- 


216  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

ful,  as  well  as  an  innocent  girl,  was,  alas!  to  be  sacrificed.  The 
upright,  the  virtuous'  and^  intelligent  portion  of  the  community, 
turned  a  deaf  qar  to  the  i<Jlelale  of  scandal,  and  spurned  it;  but 
there  are,  in  all  comfljunitics,  some  who  delight  to  give  currency 
and  circulation  to  auy  thjng  which  is  likely  to  affect  private  repu- 
tation. The  character  of  a,  virtuous  woman  is  more  sensitive  than 
the  fibres  of  the  sensitive  plant ;  if  you  but  breathe  upon  it  the 
breath  of  suspicion,  it  shrinks;  it  pines  and  perishes.  Oh!  then, 
how  cruel  it  is,  lightly  to  asperse  that,  which  once  wounded,  can 
never  be  healed!  One  word,  idly,  carelessly  spoken,  may  blast 
the  peace  and  blight  the  happiness  of  years,  or  perhaps  send  the 
innocent  victim,  with  a  broken  heart,  to  an  untimely  tomb,  after 
having  endured  agonies  unutterable. 

The  unhappy  Mary  retired  to  her  lonely  chamber,  to  weep  over 
the  wrongs  which  she  could  neither  resent  nor  revenge.  In  her 
grief  she  humbly  bowed  down  before  the  merciful  one,  who 
"  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,"  and  prayed  fervently,  im- 
ploring him  to  give  her  strength  to  bear  up  against  the  burthen 
which  had  been  imposed  on  the  innocent.  Forced  to  relinquish 
her  situation  in  the  store,  by  the  dark  reports  concerning  herself 
and  Mr.  Whitefield,  she  had  little  to  do  but  to  spend  her  hours 
alone  in  unavailing  regret  and  grief. 

Mr.  Whitefielcj,  indignant  at  the  attempt  to  injure  him,  and  en- 
raged at  the  cruelty  of  stabbing  at  him  through  the  innocent  heart 
of  a  beautiful  young  lady,  who  was  to  be  sacrificed  on  the  altar  of 
political  enmity  to  him,  in  vain  endeavored  to  trace  the  scandal  to 
its  original  fountain.  Its  branches  were  like  those  streams,  whose 
sources  are  lost  amid  the  inaccessible  recesses  of  a  mighty  mountain. 

"Where  are  you  going  this  morning!"  enquired  Mrs.  Sunder- 
land  of  her  daughter  Julia,  as  she  put  on  her  bonnet  to  go  out. 

"  Why  mother,  I'm  only  going  to  see  Mary  Mandeville's  new 
dress,  that  she  made,  and  that  every  body  so  much  admires." 

"No,  indeed,  Miss,  you're  going  to  see  no  Mary  Mandeville, 
nor  Womanville  either,"  said  the  mother,  playing  on  the  name. 

"  Why  not,  mother?     Every  body  likes  Mary  Mandeville." 

"  Is  it  impossible  you  havn't  heard  the  reports  about  her,  and, — " 

"No  mother,  for  mercy's  sake,  what  could  anybody  say  about 
so  sensible,  sweet,  and  pretty  a  girl,  as  Mary  Mandeville?" 

"  Why,  Mr.  Whitefiftld  and  her  have  been  flirting  and  walking 
out  late  at  night,  in  conversation." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  this  about  Mary,"  said  Julia,     j 

"  Nor  I,"  added  her  father. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD   BARD.  '   217 

"  But  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Sunderland,  "  I  foresaw  it  all — I  said  it 
would  be  so,  when  I  used  to  see  M,r.t  Whitefield-  .going  by  here 
with  her  late  at  night.  Now,  Julia,  I  tej)  you  onc,e  for  all,  you  must 
from  this  moment  drop  your  visits  th£re,  aid  you  must  not  by 
any  means  be  seen  with  her  on  the  street"  •, . 

"  B«t  I  do  not  believe  the  scandal,  JMa."       '  *  •. 

"But  other  people  will,"  returned  Mrs.  Sunderland,  "and  what 
will  they  think  of  you,  if  you  keep  her  company?  No,  no;  you 
shall  never  darken  her  door  again." 

"  Well,  I  believe  you're  right,"  said  Mr.  Sunderland.  "  People 
are  known  by  the  company  they  keep,  and,  poor  thing,  if  people 
believe  she's  that  sort  of  a  girl,  it's  all  the  same  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  as  if»sjie  were.  She's  a  ruined  girl,  that's  certain, 
whether  she's  innocent  or  not.  If  people  once  get  a  thing  into 
their  heads  it  might  as  well  be  so,  for  they'll  have  it  so." 

"That's  my  opinion  precisely,"  said  Mrs.  Sunderland,  "  and 
who'd  a  thought  I'd  hit  the  nail  so  on  the  head?  I  some  how 
always  thought  it  would  turn  out  so." 

"  Well,  I  believe  I'll  go  and  see  poor  Mary,"  said  Julia,"  "if  it's 
for  the  last  time  that — " 

"  But  you  shan't,"  returned  her  mother,  and  Julia  \verrt  pbuting 
to  the  parlor  to  put  away  her  bonnet. 

Time,  the  usual  soother  of  sorrow  rolled  OB,  but  every  day 
added  to  the  wretchedness  of  Mary  Mandeville.  One  By  one,  as 
the  report  went  abroad,  her  old  friends  and  companions  dropped 
off  and  deserted  her,  and  when  she  met  them  on  the  street  they 
turned  their  faces  another  way  until  they  passed.  Ah !  how  true 
it  is,  that  friendship  is  like  our  philosophy;  when  we  need  it  the 
most,  we  have  the  least  of  it.  Those  who  had  crowded  around 
her  in  her  sunny  days,  forsook  her  at  the  very  hour  when  she 
needed  their  friendship  most.  True  indeed  are  the  words  of  Ovid, 
the  Latin  poet — 

"  Tempore  felici,  multi  numerantur  amici, 
Si  fortuna  peril,  nullus  amicus  erit." 

Which  may  be  translated  thus — "  In  prosperity  we  can  discover 
many  friends!  but  if  fortune  fails,  not  one  is  to  be  found."  Thus 
it  was  with  poor  Mary.  Often,  when  necessity  compelled  her  to 
go  upon  the  street,  cruel  remarks  met  he^ears.  that  went  to  her 
heart  like  keen  daggers.  One  day,  when  going  to  see  a  sick  per- 
son, she  walked  behind  several  ladies  whom  she  recognized,  but 
who  did  not  recognize  her;  for  she  had  become  entirely  negligent 
28 


218  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILPORD   BARD. 

of  her  dress,  and  that  anguish  which  was  continually  preying  upon 
her  mind,  like  the  vulture  upon  the  liver  of  Prometheus,  had  paled 
her  face,  and  made  such  ravages  upon  her  features,  that  she  did 
not  look  like  the  same  beautiful  Mary,  though  still  beautiful. 

"  Well,  for  my  part  I  pity  Mary  Mandeville,"  said  Anne  Roland- 
son,  "for  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  the  scandalous  tale." 

"  I  do,"  replied  Elizabeth  Munson. 

"  And  I,  too,"  added  Jane  Freylee. 

"And  I,  three,"  rejoined  Jeannette  Templeton.  "I  believe  it, 
and  it  will  teach  that  proud  girl  not  to  carry  her  head  so  high  in 
future,  when  she  has  a  bevy  of  beaux  around  her." 

"  Yes,"  added  Jane,  who  had  once  been  the  professed  bosom 
friend  and  confidant  of  Mary,  "  I  never  saw  as  proud  a  flirt  in 
all  my  life,  and  pride  for  once  has  got  a  fall.  I  heard  the  dashing 
young  Dandlethorpe  talking  about  her  to-day." 

"  I  never  saw  as  proud  and  haughty  a  thing  in  all  my  days," 
added  Jemima  Jessup.  "  She  thought  she  knew  more  than  any 
body  else,  and  when  at  a  party,  she  was  always  showing  her  genus, 
by  talking  big  words  about  that  poetry  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  that 
was  made  by  Walter  Scott ;  and  Shakspeare's  Lady  of  the  Lakes, 
and  Byron's  Night  Thoughts,  and  all  such  nonsense.  She  always 
had  a  gang  of  young  fellers  round  her,  and  they  only  made  sport 
of  her,  if  she  did  but  know  it." 

"  Such,"  thought  Mary  Mandeville,  as  she  turned  a  corner  of 
the  street  and  left  them,  "  are  what  we  call  friends,  and  such  is  the 
friendship  of  this  hollow-hearted  world.  There  go  five,  who  were 
once  my  bosom  friends ;  who  professed  to  love  me  with  all  their 
nearts;  and  who  considered  it  no  mean  honor  to  be  considered 
my  associates.  No  sooner  am  I  assailed  by  the  tongue  of  slander, 
which  might  blast  them  at  a  breath,  as  easily  as  myself,  than  four 
out  of  five  are  my  bitter  enemies,  and  profess  to  believe  that,  of 
which  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  proof.  Oh  !  if  human  friendship 
be  made  of  such  stuff,  I  desire  no  more  of  it.  Only  one  of  the 
five  is  exempt  from  that  mean  spirit  of  envy,  which  sows  the  path 
of  life  with  discord,  hatred  and  revenge.  But  one,  out  of  the  five, 
remains  the  same  in  adversity,  as  in  prosperity — '  but  one  is  a 
friend  in  need.' " 

Thus  did  Mary  muse.  Misfortune  had  broken  a  seal,  and 
opened  to  her  sources  of  knowledge  she  had  never  dreamed  of. 
She  had  hitherto  believed  every  heartless  profession  of  friendship, 
but  now  she  saw  herself  deserted  by  the  very  friends  she  prized, 
and  she  awoke  from  her  dream  of  bliss  to  find  how  false,  how  hoi- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  219 

low-hearted  they  were.  She  remembered  their  protestations  of 
friendship,  that  no  time  or  change  or  circumstances  were  ever  to 
alter  or  obliterate,  and  she  sighed  over  the  fickleness  and  faithless- 
ness of  human  nature. 

But  Mary  consoled  herself  with  the  thought  that,  though  deserted 
by  all  her  other  friends,  Emma  Stransbury  would  still  cleave  to 
her,  and  sympathize  in  her  sorrows.  Emma  visited  her  every 
evening,  when  not  particularly  engaged,  and  seemed  very  assiduous 
in  soothing  the  lacerated  feelings  of  her  friend,  and  in  endeavor- 
ing to  cheer  her  drooping  spirit. 

With  the  view  of  diverting  her  mind  from  her  daily  and  nightly 
subject  of  grief,  Mrs.  Gladson,  an  own  sister  to  Mary's  mother, 
made  a  very  splendid  party,  and  invited  many  young  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  Bitter  as  death  to  Mary  was  the  thought  of  appearing 
in  a  circle  of  society  in  which  she  once  shone  as  the  centre  and 
the  soul ;  the  brightest  of  the  beautiful  and  most  admired ;  but 
how  could  she  decline  going,  when  her  aunt  had  put  herself  to  so 
much  trouble  on  her  account.  Her  refusal  would  be  an  insult, 
and  then  her  aunt  persuaded  her,  that  it  would  be  the  best  way  to 
kill  the  effects  of  the  slander  which  had  gone  abroad. 

Mary,  after  much  misgiving,  at  last  acquiesced ;  and  after  adorn- 
ing herself  in  a  neat  manner,  sat  down  to  wait  for  Emma,  who, 
she  hoped,  would  call  in  as  she  passed  on  her  way.  Sure  enough, 
about  three  o'clock  Emma  entered  her  boudoir. 

"  Why,  Mary,  I  thought  you  were  determined  not  to  go,"  said 
Emma,  with  much  surprise,  and  seemingly,  with  chagrin. 

Mary's  mind  was  quick,  and  could  read  a  motive  in  the  very 
tone  of  the  voice. 

"  Perhaps  Emma,  you  did  not  wish  me  to  go,"  said  Mary. 

"Oh!  I — I — I — ,  yes,  I  expected  you  to  go;  but,  dear  me,  I 
have  forgotten  something,  and  perhaps  you  had  better  not  wait," 
said  Emma  with  some  confusion.  "  I  must  go  home  first,  and  it 
will  be  so  long  before  I  return." 

"  I  will  go  home  with  you,  as  I  would  like  to  have  company," 
and  as  Mary  spoke,  suspecting  for  the  first  time  that  Emma 
wished  to  avoid  her  company  on  the  street,  she  fixed  her  large 
dark  eye  full  upon  her,  watching  every  varying  expression. 

"No,  my  child,  you  had  better  go  on,  for  I  shall  be  late  and " 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,"  interrupted  Mary,  with  rather  a  contemptu- 
ous look,  "  do  you  not  wish  to  avoid  my  company?" 

"  Well,  Mary,  I  will  tell  you,  provided  you  will  promise  not  to 
be  offended." 


220  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"  I  can  easily  promise  you  that,"  returned  Mary,  with  mingled 
feelings  of  sorrow  and  disgust,  "  after  the  many  exhibitions  of 
friendship  that  I  have  seen  lately." 

"  I  would  not  care  myself,  Mary,  but  aunt  Susan  and  brother 
Ab  declare  that  I  must  not  walk  in  public  with  you." 

The  wretched  Mary  sunk  into  a  chair  and  gasped  for  breath. 
She  dreaded  to  go  to  the  party,  and  yet  she  could  not  be  ungrate- 
ful for  the  kindness  shown  her,  as  the  party  had  been  made  ex- 
pressly on  her  account.  She  sat  and  wept  some  time  after  Emma 
had  gone,  then  rose,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  with  feelings  not  to  be 
envied,  took  her  way  to  Mrs.  Gladson's,  in  whose  parlor  a  large 
number  had  assembled.  Confused  by  the  gaze  of  so  many,  and 
blushing  deeply,  she  withstood  the  first  shock,  and  tottered  to  a 
chair;  for  she  was  ready  to  drop  on  the  floor.  That  evening  con- 
tained hours  of  agony  to  Mary,  but  she  suffered  on  through  them, 
rather  than  show  disrespect  to  the  hostess,  who  was  endeavoring 
to  be  her  friend.  Some  of  the  ladies,  who  had  once  been  familiar 
with  her,  now  affected  to  have  no  acquaintance,  and  while  all  the 
rest  seemed  one  band  of  sisters,  she  alone  sat  solitary  and  unob- 
served, save  when  some  gentleman  pointed  to  her  slily,  and  made 
her  the  subject  of  remark.  Several  ladies  called  for  their  bonnets 
and  departed,  saying  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  Mary, 

"Come,  let's  go;  we  cannot  associate  now  with  Miss  Mande- 
ville — I  wonder  at  Mrs.  Gladson  to  invite  her," 

"True  enough,  with  the  character  she  bears,"  added  another. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  true?"  enquired  a  third. 

"Well,  there  seems  some  ground  for  it,"  answered  a  fourth. 

"But  what  grounds?"  asked  the  third  lady,  as  they  lingered  at 
the  door,  for  some  gentleman  to  attend  them. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  whispered  the  other.  "Mr.  Wigglesworth  says 
that  he  had  it  from  Mr.  Thompson,  the  baker,  whose  wife  told  him 
that  she  was  confidentially  informed  by  Mrs.  Inskeep,  that  her 
brother  told  her  that  he  was  in  company  with  a  gentleman  of  great 
veracity,  who  saw  Mr.  Whitefield  walking  late  at  night  with  Mary 
Mandeville,  and  that  they  were  conversing  together." 

Mary,  during  this  tete-a-tete,  was  sitting  at  a  window  near  the 
door,  the  shutters  of  which  were  closed.  She  could  hear  every 
word,  though  spoken  in  a  suppressed  voice,  and  her  heart  ached 
at  the  thought  that  those  who  had  once  sought  her  society  so  ea- 
gerly, should  thus  give  credence  to  a  rumor  on  such  slight  foun- 
dation. While  she  still  sat  at  the  window,  a  gentleman  of  the  haul 
ton,  who  had  often  visited  her,  and  had  been  an  ardent  admirer  of 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  221 

her  beauty,  took  up  his  hat,  and  proceeded  to  the  door,  on  the 
outside  of  which  the  ladies  were  standing,  nearly  under  the  window. 

"What  was  that  you  were  saying  of  Mary  Mandeville?"  en- 
quired the  gay,  dashing  young  Francis  Manley.  "Ah!  I  could 
tell  you  something  concerning  her  that  you  haven't  heard,  but 
come,"  said  he  to  his  sister,  "  I'll  tell  you  as  we  go  along." 

As  he  spoke,  the  bevy  of  ladies,  who  had  once  been  the  parti- 
cular friends  of  Mary,  left  the  precincts  of  the  building,  and  she 
was  saved  the  mortification  of  hearing  the  inuendo.  She  now 
anxiously  longed  for  the  hour  of  retirement,  that  she  might  fly  to 
her  secluded  chamber,  and  pour  out  in  tears  the  tide  of  grief  from 
her  unhappy  heart.  In  the  midst  of  company  she  felt  like  an  iso- 
lated being,  for  though  every  eye  was  upon  her,  there  was  no  sym- 
pathy of  soul  between  her  and  the  gay,  happy  beings  around  her, 
who  but  a  little  time  before,  ere  the  blighting  brealh  of  slander 
had  fallen  upon  her  fair  fame,  had  been  delighted  to  come  at  her 
call,  and  to  own  her  the  fairy  May  queen,  and  the  centre  of  the 
circle  of  society  in  which  they  had  moved.  Often  during  the 
evening,  did  she  mentally  repeat  the  exquisite  lines  of  Moore — 

"  I  feel  like  one,  who  treads  alone, 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted  ;    . 
Whose  lights  are  fled,  whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  me  deserted." 

It  has  ever  appeared  strange  to  me,  that  females  should  be 
so  severe  against  one  of  their  own  sex,  who  really,  through  the 
villainy  of  man,  steps  into  the  path  of  error,  or  who,  by  idle,  un- 
founded rumor  is  said  to  have  done  so.  But  it  is  a  lamentable 
fact,  that  when  a  lady  does,  through  the  base  arts  of  villainous 
man,  overstep  the  bounds  of  decorum,  or  is  only  said  to  have  done 
so,  by  the  tongue  of  slander,  the  whole  sex  come  forth  open- 
mouthed  against  her,  and  hunt  her  down  to  shame  through  every 
lane  of  life.  While  pity  for  her  misfortune  drops  from  the 
lips  of  man,  thunders  of  denunciation  fall  from  the  tongue  of 
woman.  She  has  no  mercy  for  the  foibles  of  one  of  her  own  sex. 
But  whenever  I  have  enquired  why  they  are  so  severe  against  a 
fallen  sister,  my  question  has  been  met  with  a  powerful  argument, 
that  if  they  were  not  thus  severe,  many  more  would  fall.  The  se- 
verity and  the  certainty  of  the  punishment,  say  they,  saves  many 
from  wandering  into  the  paths  of  error. 

The  party  at  length  broke  up,  and  poor  Mary  found  that  it  was 
not  as  it  once  had  been.  Every  lady  now  seemed  anxious  to  avoid 


222  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

going  home  with  her.  The  time  had  been  when  every  one  was 
striving  which  should  have  the  honor  of  taking  her  arm,  but  now 
she  was  left  to  trudge  her  way  alone.  Mary  keenly  felt  this  ne- 
glect, for  there  is  no  one  so  independent  as  not  to  be  susceptible  to 
•such  slights.  The  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  all  paired  off,  save 
Mary  and  one  wild  young  fellow  who  had  been  slily  winking  at 
her  all  the  evening,  thus  presuming  to  insult  her,  on  the  strength 
of  the  reports  which  he  had  heard  concerning  her  and  Mr.  White- 
field.  He  offered  to  attend  her  home,  but  she  repulsed  him  and 
went  alone. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  describe  the  feelings  of  Mary,  as 
she  slowly  moved  along,  reflecting  on  the  occurrences  of  the  even- 
ing. Never  had  she  spent  such  an  evening  before.  She  had  al- 
ways been  the  star,  the  guiding  genius,  and  leading  spirit  of  every 
party.  The  admired  of  all,  both  for  her  talents  and  her  beauty, 
she  had  ever  been  the  centre  of  attraction  round  which  all  others 
moved.  Oh!  how  keenly  did  she  feel  the  change.  We  judge  and 
enjoy  every  thing  by  contrast,  and  by  contrast  is  our  misery  often 
measured.  When  Mary  contrasted  that  evening,  and  the  treatment 
she  had  received,  with  the  happy  days  that  were  gone  forever, 
when  she  was  idolized,  worshipped,  and  her  slightest  wish  antici- 
pated, her  bosom  swelled  with  emotion,  and  tears  trickled  from 
her  eyes. 

The  full  moon  was  hanging  high  in  the  hall  of  heaven,  like  a 
silver  chandelier,  and  Mary,  as  was  her  wont,  stopped  a  moment 
to  muse  on  that  beautiful  orb.  But  how  sad  were  her  meditations  ! 
But  a  month  before  she  had  stood  at  the  side  of  Henry,  gazing  at 
the  same  moon.  Oh!  how  happy  she  was  then,  ere  the  blight  of 
scandal  had  fallen  upon  her  fair  fame.  It  was  then  that  she  pledged 
her  heart  and  hand  to  Henry,  whom  she  dearly  loved,  and  she 
would  have  given  the  world  to  feel  as  she  then  felt.  She  shud- 
dered as  the  recollection  came  upon  her  that  she  was  now  a 
blighted  flower,  blasted  by  the  withering  breath  of  slander.  Would 
Henry  now  take  her  to  his  arms — now  that  she  had  become  a 
mark  for  the  finger  of  scorn  to  point  at?  Would  he  rejoice  in  the 
possession  of  the  hand  of  her  whose  reputation  was  the  sport  of 
slander;  whose  honor  had  become  a  by-word  and  a  reproach? 
Oh!  the  thought  was  madness.  She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  it. 

Scarcely  had  the  unhappy  girl  withdrawn  her  eyes  from  the 
moon  and  passed  on,  when  she  beheld  some  object  emerging  from 
the  shadow  of  the  court-house.  As  she  approached,  the  fortune- 
teller crossed  her  path,  and  so  suddenly  did  her  appearance  recall 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  223 

to  her  mind  the  ominous  words  of  the  prophecy,  that  feelings  of 
superstitious  terror  crept  over  her,  and  she  fled  hastily.  No  sooner 
did  she  reach  home,  than  she  repaired  to  her  room,  but  not  to 
sleep.  Oh!  no;  sleep, 

"  Like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 

Where  fortune  smiles ;  the  wretched  he  forsakes  ; 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinions  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear." 

So  it  was  with  the  lovely,  the  innocent,  the  miserable  Mary. 
She  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  gave  way  to  that  flood  of 
grief  which  had  been  pent  up  all  the  evening.  Long  and  bitterly 
did  she  weep,  and  she  shuddered  when  she  thought  of  that  bleed- 
ing heart  which  the  fortune-teller  spoke  of.  Many  of  her  predic- 
tions had  already  transpired,  and  Mary  believed  that  all  would  be 
fulfilled.  '  She  felt  that  she  was  doomed,  and  that  no  power  on 
earth  could  avert  the  fate  that  must  befall  her.  Tossing  from  side 
to  side  she  spent  the  night,  and  arose  next  morning  dejected  and 
dispirited.  The  sun  arose  in  all  his  glory,  shedding  his  golden 
light  on  her  flowers  at  the  window,  but  not  a  ray  of  hope's  light 
broke  into  the  darkened  chambers  of  her  mind.  All  was  dark, 
lonely  and  desolate. 

Henry  Brandon,  who  had  been  spending  some  time  in  the  coun- 
try previous  to  his  expected  marriage,  now  returned  to  town,  and 
with  a  joyous  heart  hastened  to  pay  his  visit  to  her,  who  had  be- 
come to  him  dearer  than  life.  As  he  was  passing  along  the  street 
with  a  rapid  pace  towards  the  residence  of  Mary,  envious  ef  every 
moment  that  kept  him  from  her  presence,  he  observed  several  men 
standing  at  the  corner,  who  seemed  to  be  much  tickled  at  some- 
thing that  one  of  the  party  was  relating  with  singular  gesticulation, 
while  ever  and  anon  the  whole  party  looked  towards  him.  Not  a 
breath  of  the  rumor  concerning  Mary's  reputation  had  yet  reached 
his  ears,  and  little  did  he  dream  of  the  deadly  blow  that  was  destined 
to  fall  upon  his  hopes  and  happiness.  Brilliant  and  beautiful  was 
the  prospect  which  his  fancy  had  pictured  before  him,  when  he 
should  lead  to  the  altar  in  triumph  that  beautiful  one,  at  whose  feet 
so  many  had  bowed  in  adoration,  and  for  whose  hand  so  many  had 
sighed  in  vain.  Ah!  how  soon  was  this  cup  of  bliss,  just  tasted, 
to  be  dashed  from  his  lips,  and  all  his  gay  visions  of  hope  and 
happiness  to  disappear,  like  the  sunlight  from  the  landscape,  when 
a  dark  cloud  suddenly  intervenes.  Oh!  it  was  cruel  thus  to  blast 


224  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

at  one  blow  the  joyous  dream  of  affection,  which  he  had  so  long, 
so  tenderly,  and  so  dearly  cherished. 

"  Whither  are  you  travelling  so  fast?"  enquired  one  of  the  party. 
"  Why  you  go  ahead  like  a  locomotive,  and  one  would  suppose 
that  he  was  flying  on  the  wings  of  love.  But  I  suspect  he's  going 
to  see  his  old  flame." 

"  He'll  be  apt  to  get  his  fingers  burnt,  if  he  goes  there,"  added 
Paul  Freelingham,  bursting  into  a  horse-laugh  at  his  wit. 

"Yes,"  rejoined  Tom  Bensonby,  following  up  the  low  wit, 
"  and  there'll  be  an  explosion  of  the  heart." 

This  was  followed  by  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  1  guess,"  said  Sam  Winnersly,  who  was  famed  for  his  punning 
propensity,  "  that  it  will  be  a  flaming  and  flare-up  concern  through- 
out, when  Henry  knows  how  he's  been  burnt." 

"  Gentlemen,  I  don't  understand  your  inuendoes,"  said  Henry, 
little  dreaming  of  the  drift.  "  You  speak  of  flames,  but  the  subject 
is  such  that  I'm  all  in  the  dark,  it  appears." 

"  You'll  soon  be  illuminated,"  said  Sam,  "  for  there's  a  monstrous 
smoke  out." 

"Pshaw!  man,  why  don't  you  tell  him  the  truth,  Winnersly," 
interrogated  Tom  Bensonby.  "  The  fact  is,  Henry,  it's  reported 
in  these  diggins,  that  your  dulcinea  made  a  contract  of  marriage 
with  Whitefield,  who  is  already  a  married  man — a  second  wife 
with  the  first  living." 

A  tremendous  roar  of  laughter  followed  this  slang,  for  it  must 
be  borne  in  mind  that  these  men  were  all  political  opponents  of 
both  Henry  Brandon  and  Mr.  Whitefield,  and  there  was  a  bitter- 
ness in  the  expression  of  every  word.  It  is  painful  at  any  time  to 
become  the  butt  of  ridicule,  but  in  this  case  it  was  poignantly 
severe,  as  the  subject  in  part  with  Henry  was  a  beautiful  and  vir- 
tuous young  lady,  whose  heart  had  long  been  his,  and  whose 
hand  was  pledged  to  him  in  marriage. 

"  Dare  not,  sir,  to  breathe  one  foul  word  from  your  polluted  lips 
on  her  fair  fame,"  said  he,  "  or  by  the  eternal  Jove  you  shall  answer 
for  the  base  aspersion.  Let  any  man  dare  to  impeach  her  char- 
acter, which  has  ever  been  above  suspicion,  and  it  were  better  he 
had  never  been  born;  for  Juiow,  ye  traducers  of  innocence,  that 
not  purer  are  the  angels  in  heaven  than  she  whose  name  is  coupled 
with  infamy  on  your  unhallowed  lips." 

This  speech  startled  those  who  were  brave  enough  to  attack  a 
lady's  reputation,  but  who  shrunk  from  the  avowed  avenger  of  in- 
jured innocence. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  225 

"What  he  told  you,"  replied  Paul  Freelingham,  "is  reported 
all  over  town,  and  it's  no  use  to  get  mad  at  it." 

"Do  you  know  it  to  be  true,  sir?"  enquired  Henry,  as  he  ap- 
proached him  in  a  menacing  attitude.  "Dare  you  avow  it  to  be  a 
fact?  Have  you  any  proof?" 

"Ay,  sir,  I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  exclaimed  Mr.  White- 
field,  who  now  approached,  and  who  had  heard  the  questions  put 
by  Henry,  "Villain,  do  you  know  it  to  be  a  fact?  Give  up  your 
author,  or  stand  branded  as  an  jirifamous  fabricator  of  the  foul 
slander  which  has  blasted  the  peace  of  an  innocent  girl,  and 
doomed  her  to  shed  the  bitter  tears  of  sorrow." 

"Oh!  I  don't  know,  nor  don't  care,  whether  it's  true  or  not," 
replied  Paul,  "I  only  heard  it  about  town." 

"Who  told  you,  sir?"  enquired  Mr.  Whitefield,  trembling  with 
passion,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  control. 

"I  don't  know  that  I'm  bound  to  tell  you,"  said  Paul,  becoming 
pale.  "I'm  not  to  be  frightened,  sir." 

"Frightened!"  repeated  Mr.  Whitefield  with  a  sneer.  "Why, 
sir,  one  man  who  stands  forth  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  an  injured 
and  innocent  lady,  is  more  than  a  match  for  a  host  of  cowardly 
assassins,  who  skulk  and  stab  their  victims  in  the  dark.  Give  me 
your  author,  sir,  or  you  shall  answer  on  the  spot  for  the  base 
slander  you  have  retailed.  Shame  upon  you  to  blast  a  lovely  lady, 
that  you  might  injure  my  election!" 

"Well,  if  you  must  know  my  author,"  returned  Paul,  "it  was 
old  Billy  Sandwick,  and  he  said  he  heard  sonje  one  say  that  Bob 
Strieker,  the  cow  boy,  saw  Mary  Mandeville  walking  with  some 
gentleman,  one  dark  night,  but  it  was  so  dark  he  could  not  dis- 
tinguish him." 

"And  pray  how  did  he  distinguish  her?"  asked  Henry,  with  a 
look  of  contempt.  "This  is  like  all  other  stories  of  the  kind,  too 
contemptible  for  any  person  of  sense  to  listen  to." 

"Let  it  pass,"  continued  Mr.  Whitefield.  "I  have  made  several 
attempts  to  trace  it  to  its  origin,  but  in  every  instance  I  am  met 
with  the  same  pitiful  shuffling.  Every  one  has  heard  it  from  some 
cow  boy,  or  old  woman  that  dreamed  it,  and  no  one  started  it.  I 
will  offer  a  sum  of  money  for  the  name  of  the  scandalous  author, 
and  if  I  succeed  in  obtaining  it,  woe  be  to  him.  I  do  not  care  as 
it  respects  myself,  for  I  know  the  fiendish  invention  was  got  up  by 
my  political  opponents  to  prevent  my  election;  but  the  mean  and 
dastardly  stab  which  has  been  given  to  the  reputation  of  a  lovely 
lady,  whom  I  have  ever  regarded  as  a  sister,  would  excite  indigna- 
29 


226  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

tion  in  the  heart  of  any  man  who  has  any  pretension  to  honor,  or 
any  respect  for  a  virtuous  woman." 

Henry,  during  the  last  speech  of  Mr.  Whitefield,  had  started 
with  accelerated  speed  down  the  street,  and  the  nearer  he  ap- 
proached the  residence  of  Mary,  the  more  was  his  heart  harrowed 
with  the  recollection  of  what  had  just  passed.  When  he  entered 
she  was  sitting  with  her  back  towards  him,  but  no  sooner  did  she 
turn  and  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  affianced  husband,  than  she  cov- 
ered her  face  with  her  hands  and  burst  into  tears,  while  he  stood 
wondering  at  the  change  in  her  appearance. 

"Oh!  Henry,"  she  exclaimed,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  "with  what  different  feelings  do  we  now  meet,  from  those 
when  you  were  last  here!"  and  as  she  spoke,  the  unhappy  girl 
wrung  her  hands  in  agony,  while  her  dark  eyes,  from  which  the 
tears  were  streaming,  were  turned  towards  him  imploringly. 

"Mary,  dear  Mary,  what  is  the  matter?"  he  enquired,  feigning 
to  be  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  her  grief. 

"Oh!  Henry,"  she  cried,  while  she  became  frantic  with  grief, 
"I  am  ruined,  blasted  forever!  My  name  has  been  consigned  to 
eternal  shame,  and  as  the  fortune-teller  foretold,  my  best  friend, 
by  evil  tongues,  has  been  made  the  innocent  cause  of  all  my  woe. 
Oh !  that  I  were  in  the  peaceful  grave,  for  I  shall  never  know  any 
more  happiness  in  this  world." 

"  Say  not  so,  dearest  Mary ;  it  is  but  an  empty  rumor,  and  will 
soon  die  away." 

"No,  Henry,  never,  never,  till  I  go  down  to  the  grave  with  a 
broken  heart.  When  all  remembrance  of  me  shall  have  passed 
away,  then  it  may  die,  and  not  till  then.  Oh!  Henry,"  she  ex- 
claimed, raising  her  beautiful  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  to  his,  "it  is 
cruel,  it  is  cruel!  My  persecutors,  I  think,  would  relent,  could 
they  but  know  the  pangs  that  have  wrung  my  heart,  and  the  many 
hours  I  have  spent  in  unavailing  agony.  My  friends  and  com- 
panions have  all  forsaken  me ;  they  shrink  from  me  as  from  a  thing 
of  pollution,  and  my  name  has  gone  forth  as  another  word  for 
shame.  Oh!  I  am  sure  I  do  not  deserve  it;  and  I  was  so  happy 
when  you  were  here  before.  I  then  thought  that  a  life  of  joy  was 
just  opening  before  me,  but  I  am  doomed  to  misery." 

"Nay,  Mary,  dear  Mary,  be  more  calm.  I  do  not  believe  a  word 
of  the  villainous  slander,  and  why  should  conscious  innocence 
shrink  beneath  unmerited  censure?" 

"But,  dear  Henry,  the  wicked  world  will  believe  a  tale  of 
scandal,  however  preposterous  it  may  be,  and  dearly  have  I  reason 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  227 

to  know  that  it  believes  this  shameful  story.  Oh!  yes,  it  makes 
my  heart  ache  to  think,  that  those  who  once  dearly  loved  me  be- 
lieve every  word  of  it,  for  they  have  flung  me  from  their  bosoms 
like  a  worthless  weed.  Oh !  my  heart  will  break !  My  heart  will 
break!" — and  she  rushed  wildly  across  the  room,  wringing  her 
hands  in  an  agony  of  grief. 

"Dear  Mary,  be  more  calm,"  said  Henry,  as  he  took  her  hand. 
"  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  give  way  to  the  violence  of  your  feelings." 

"I  cannot  help  it — I  cannot  help  it,  Henry.  Oh!  no,  I  cannot 
help  it,"  she  exclaimed,  and  with  one  scream  she  tottered  back- 
wards, and  fell  fainting  in  the  arms  of  Henry. 

Instantly  he  bore  her  sylph-like  form  to  a  couch;  ran  for  some 
water,  and,  without  calling  for  assistance,  bathed  her  face,  from 
which  every  trace  of  the  roses  that  had  lately  bloojned  there  was 
gone.  For  some  time  he  stood,  as  if  spell-bound,  watching  the 
symptoms  of  gradually  returning  consciousness,  wbjle  his  bosom 
swelled  with  mingled  emotions  of  pity  and  indignation.  Where 
indeed  is  the  heart,  so  dead  to  all  the  finer  feelings  of  our  nature, 
that  it  would  not  melt  in  pity,  at  seeing  an  amiable,  beautiful  and 
innocent  being  thus  stricken  down  ?  And  where  is  the  man  whose 
spirit  would  not  flash  with  indignation  at  so  heartless  a  deed  ?  For 
oh!  how  keen,  how  killing,  how  cruel  must  that  grief  have  been, 
which  could  thus  so  suddenly  hurl  reason  from  her  throne,  and 
prostrate  all  the  energies  of  life  ? 

"Oh!  cruel,  cruel  act!"  mentally  exclaimed  Henry,  as  he  stood 
with  clasped  hands,  still  watching  the  pale  and  almost  inanimate 
form  before  him.  "  Could  those  who  inflicted  this  deadly  blow  on 
her  whose  gentle  heart  never  breathed  a  wish  to  injure  any  one — 
could  those  who  have  thoughtlessly  given  currency  to  the  rumor, 
which  has  blasted  her  peace  of  mind,  and  given  her  days  to 
misery — ay,  could  he,  who  first  invented  the  calumny,  behold  her 
now,  for  I  will  not  believe  that  one  of  her  own  sex  could  be  so 
cruel,  how  would  compunction  seize  upon  him,  and  wring  his  soul 
with  torture!  Alas!  how  often  do  people  laugh  and  sport  over  the 
ruined  reputation  of  an  innocent  one,  who  never  did  them  harm; 
how  little  do  they  think  that  the  scandal  which  is  the  subject  of  their 
thoughtless  mirth  is  blighting  the  hopes,  carrying  desolation  to  a 
heart  that  is  breaking  with  anguish!  A  careless  word,  a  single 
look  or  nod,  may  sometimes,  though  said  or  done  in  merriment, 
make  a  wound  which  time  can  never  heal.  It  may  rankle  in  the 
heart,  long  after  the  remembrance  of  the  word  or  look  hath  passed 
away  and  been  forgotten." 


228  "WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

While  Henry  thus  mused,  and  with  bitter  feelings  contrasted 
this  meeting  with  the  happy  one  before,  when,  with  smiles  and 
modest  downcast  looks,  she  promised  to  be  his  bride;  Mary 
opened  her  eyes,  and  for  some  time  gazed  upon  him  with  a 
mournful  look,  that  seemed  to  penetrate  his  soul. 

"Ay!  Henry,"  she  at  length  said,  gently  putting  her  hand  on 
his,  "I  told  you  there  was  truth  in  what  the  fortune-teller  said. 
Yes,  Henry,  the  bleeding  heart  is  realized  here,"  and  she  put  her 
hand  upon  her  bosom,  as  tears  again  gushed  from  her  eyes  and 
trickled  down  her  cheeks. 

"You  are  melancholy,  Mary;  shake  off  this  night-mare  of  the 
mind — there  are  happier  days  in  store  for  you." 

"Nay,  never,"  she  replied,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "You  say  that  I 
am  melancholy.  Is  it  not  strange  that  I  am  not  more — that  I  am 
not  distracted?  Oh!  is  it  not  enough  to  drive  me  mad,  mad, 
mad!"  and  as  she  spoke,  her  eyes  dilated».and  she  stared  at  him 
with  such  an  unearthly  look,  that  he^shuddered;  for  he  fancied, 
from  the  wild  flashing  of  her  eyes,  that  the  demon  of  mania  was 
about  to  take  possession  of  the  desolate  chambers  of  her  brain. 

"Is  it  strange,"  she  continued,  "that-I  should  be  gloomy,  when 
all  that  woman  holds  dear  has  been*rudely  blighted  ?  Is  it  strange 
that  I  should  be  melancholy,  wh^i  my  good  name  has  been  cou- 
pled with  shame,  and  is  repeated  with  persecution  and  soorn  at 
every  corner  of  the  street?  Is  it  strange,  I  say,  when  ail  my 
friends  have  deserted  me — when  they  fly  from  me  as  if  my  pre- 
sence was  pollution — when  the  finger  of  contempt  is  pointed  at 
me,  and  reproach  pursues  me  through  every  lane  of  life?  Oh! 
Henry,"  she  continued,  her  voice  growing  louder  and  louder,  un- 
til the  last  words  were  uttered  in  a  wild  scream, -'Jls  it  not  strange 
that  I  am  not  mad,  when-  even  toothers  forbid  tfieir  daughters  to 
associate  with  poor,  persecuted  MarJ,  whose  heart  never  knew  a 
single  stain,  and  never  wronged  a  human  being?"  . 

"Be  calm,  dear  Mary,"  said  Henry,  soothingly,  "I  will  not  be- 
lieve it,  and  though  the  heartless,  whose  friendship  is  of  little  value, 
may  forsake  you,  I  will  be  your  friend;  I  will  still  love  you  while 
life  endures.  But,  Ma»y,"  he  continued,  teeing  that  she  became 
more  calm,  "the  people, — I  mean  thos«  whose  opinions  are  to  be 
prized,  will  spurn  the  accusation  against  so  good,  so  sweet  a  girl; — 
they  will  never  believe  it  for  a  moment,  and  you  will  finally  come 
forth  shining  like  gold  tried  in  the  fire." 

"Oh!  Henry,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  struck  her  noble  forehead 
with  her  fair  hand,  as  if  some  painful  thought  had  just  flashed 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  229 

through  her  brain,  "you  are  deceived,  you  are  deceived.  They 
will — they  do  believe  it  now.  I  am  undone!  Oh!  what  could  a 
poor  weak  girl  do  to  merit  this?  Go  walk  the  street,  and  my 
name  is  on  every  tongue.  Oh !  would  to  heaven  that  he  who  first 
blighted  my  fair  fame,  had  plunged  a  dagger  to  my  heart,  for  then 
would  I  have  gone  to  the  grave  with  a  reputation  unstained,  and 
have  escaped  all  the  miseries  I  am  doomed  to  endure!" 

"But,  Mary,  you  are  innocent,  and " 

"Oh!  Henry!  Henry!"  exclaimed  the  frantic  girl,  wringing  her 
hands  and  interrupting  him,  "it  matters  not  if  I  were  purer  than 
the  angels  of  Heaven;  for  so  delicate  is  woman's  reputation,  that 
if  the  breath  of  suspicion  be  but  once  breathed  upon  it,  it  is  blast- 
ed, ruined  forever.  It  matters  not  how  innocent  that  wojiian  may 
be,  on  whose  fair  fame  slander  fixes  its  envenomed  fangs;  the 
moment  that  rumor  cries  out  shame,  she  is  lost,  undone.  Oh!  yes, 
Henry,  Heaven  is  witness  that  I  am  innocent  of  every  base  charge 
that  the  thousand  tongues  of  rumor  have  scattered  abroad;  but 
what  does  conscious  inriocence  avail  me  iivthis  world!  The  tale 
of  scandal  is  believed,  for  there  is  a  proneness  in  human  nature  to 
believe  the  worst,  and  as  it  regards  the  effects,  my  reputation, 
which  is  dearer  to  me  than:; life,  is  ruined ;  and  I  am  doomed  to 
suffer  the  same  misery  as  if 'the  tale  were  true." 

Henry  saw  that  the  mind  of  Mary  was  on  the  very  verge  of  de- 
spair, and  that  agitating  the  subject  of  her  grief,  might  drive  her  to 
utter  distraction,  and  he  resolved  to  leave  her  for  the  present,  in 
hope  that  quiet  would  restore  her  to  composure.  Indeed,  he  was 
sorry  that  he  had  not  delayed  his  visit  beyond  the  time  of  his  arri- 
val, that  time  might  have  softened  the  poignaiice  of  her  grief;  for 
in  its  freshness,  her  mind  required  but  a  little  more  excitement  to 
drive  her  beyond  the  bounds  of  saaity,  and  hurry  her  into  the 
dreadful  abyss  of  mania.'}*  Alas!  he  little  knew  the  extent  of  the 
nature  of  that  wound  whi6h  had  been  made  in  her  heart.  He 
dreamed  not  that  it  was  incurable  and  mortal;  had  he  even  im- 
agined it,  his  mind  would  have  been  driven  to  a  degree  of  sorrow 
but  little  less  than  her  own.  It  is  a  wise  provision  of  nature,  that 
we  cannot  look  through  the  telescope  of  time  into  the  dark, 
boundless  future,  and  lead  the  destiny  that  awaits  us.  Whether 
that  destiny  were  good  or  bad,  we  should  be  miserable;  for  if 
good,  we  would  become  sick  of  hope  deferred,  we  would  become 
weary  of  waiting  its  approach;  and  if  bad,  our  souls  would  sink 
at  the  prospect. 


230  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Well,  farewell  Mary,  dearest  Mary,"  said  Henry,  tenderly  tak- 
ing her  beautiful  white  hand  in  his,  "I  will  come  again,  when  I 
hope  to  see  you  more  cheerful,  and  wearing  those  blissful  smiles 
with  which  you  once  greeted  my  approach." 

She  slowly  turned  her  head,  from  which  her  dark  hair  fell  in 
clustering  curls,  and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  his  with  a  mournful 
look,  she  said  in  a  melancholy  tone — 

"Deceive  not  yourself,  dear  Henry,  I  shall  never  be  cheerful 
again  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  My  hopes  and  my  happiness  are 
buried  in  my  heart,  and  the  smile  that  henceforth  illumines  my 
face,  will  be  like  moonlight  on  a  burial  stone." 

As  she  spoke,  tears  trickled  from  her  eyes,  and  so  sad  did  she 
look,  and  so  mournful  was  her  voice,  that  his  heart  melted  with 
sympathy,  and  he  was  compelled  to  turn  away  to  hide  his  emotion 
and  his  tears,  for  men  are  always  foolishly  ashamed  to  exhibit  that 
tenderness  ofifeeling  which  is  an  honor  to  human  nature.  A  lady 
once  observed  to  me  that  she  had  never  seen  any  thing  in  nature 
so  awful  as  a  man  weeping — that  the  sight  inspired  her  with  feel- 
ings of  awe  that  no  other  scene  could  ever  inspire.  But  for  my- 
self, I  am  not  averse  to  such  a  sight,  for  tears  are  the  evidence  of 
a  feeling,  sympathetic  heart.  Caesar  did  not  like  Cassius  because 
he  never  smiled,  though  Shakspeare  tells  us  that  a  man  may  smile, 
and  smile,  and  be  a  villain.  If,  as  Caesar  thought,  a  smile  is  the 
evidence  of  a  generous  and  feeling  heart,  how  much  more  so  are 
tears,  which  must  ever  spring  from  the  fountain  of  feeling.  What 
Shakspeare  has  said  is  true — a  man  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be 
a  villain ;  but  I  do  not  believe  in  what  are  called  crocodile  tears. 
No,  a  hard  heart,  a  heart  that  has  becomeacallous,  and  is  lost  to 
feeling,  never  weeps.  Physiology  itself  would  deny  the  possibility 
of  counterfeited  weeping.  The  sac  which  secretes  and  holds  the 
tears  in  the  eye  cannot  be  made  to  overflow  at  pleasure — grief, 
sympathy,  or  some  emotion  of  tenderness  must  wring  the  heart 
ere  the  eye  can  be  made  to  press  upon  this  sac  and  force  out  the 
tears.  Thus,  it  is  positively  proven  that  there  can  be  no  treachery 
in  tears,  though  a  man  may  smile,  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain. 

My  dear  reader,  will  you  please  to  pardon  the  above  episode,  as 
I  considered  it  necessary  to  show  that  it  is  not  weakness  in  a  man 
to  weep;  but,  on  the  contrary,  is  an  evidence  of  manly  virtue  and 
refined  sensibility. 

"My  sweet  Mary,  compose  yourself,  and  drive  these  thoughts 
from  your  mind,"  said  Henry,  "and  I  will  be  your  protector,  I 
will  defend  your  honor  though  it  cost  my  life.  Yes,  dearest  girl, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  231 

let  but  a  man  dare  to  breathe  one  syllable  derogatory  to  your  fair 
fame,  and  by  the  eternal  gods,  I  swear,  that  he  shall  eat  every 
base-born  word,  or  answer  to  me,  as  one  gentleman  ever  should 
be  amenable  to  another  for  a  wrong?  Gentleman,  did  I  say? 
Can  he  be  a  gentleman  who  meanly  tramples  on  a  lady's  honor? 
Can  he  be  a  gentleman  who  would  basely  rob  from  a  poor  and 
lovely  girl  the  jewel  of  her  soul — who  would  take  from  her  all  that 
gives  her  value — who  would,  in  the  language  of  Shakspeare,  steal 
from  her  that  which  not  enriches  him,  but  makes  her  poor  indeed? 
No,  he  is  a  base-born  damnable  villain.  He,  who  would  thus  blast 
a  lady's  honor — he  who  would,  like  the  serpent  that  stole  into  the 
garden  of  Eden,  destroy  innocence  in  public  estimation  and  blast 
the  peace  of  as  pure  and  lovely  a  creature  as  ever  breathed,  would 
not  hesitate  to  plant  a  dagger  in  the  dark,  in  the  heart  which  had 
not  offended." 

As  Henry  uttered  these  words,  his  cheek  burned  with  indigna- 
tion, and  he  stood  in  a  theatrical  attitude,  with  his  hand  clenched 
and  his  eyes  fixed  with  a  wild  stare  upon  the  pale  tearful  face  of 
Mary.  As  is  often  the  case,  and  it  is  a  singular  phenomenon  in 
nature,  the  emotions  of  the  sweet  girl  subsided,  the  moment,  she 
saw  that  the  heart  of  her  lover  and  affianced  husband,  was  burn- 
ing with  revenge. 

Of  all  revenge,  woman's  is  the  most  deadly,  the  most  unrelent- 
ing, when  her  affections  have  been  trampled  upon.  She  may  love 
and  be  betrayed — still  she  will  bear  her  wrongs  in  silence  so 
long  as  the  object  of  her  love  bows  his  knee  to  no  other  idol;  but 
no  sooner  does  he  throw  off  the  silken  chain  that  bound  him  to 
her  and  acknowledge  allegiance  to  another,  than  the  demon  of 
revenge  lights  up  his  unhallowed  fire  on  the  altar  of  her  heart,  and 
she  clutches  the  dagger,  which  she  swears  never  to  relinquish,  till 
it  drinks  the  life-blood  of  the  heart  that  had  won  her  to  betray — 
the  heart  that  had  basely  wronged  her.  And  woman's  revenge 
has  often  beeo  awakened  by  seeing  her  proffered  love  spurned, 
rejected  with  disdain.  Roll  back  the  pages  of  Sacred  Writ  and 
we  have  an  example.  Potiphar's  wife  fell  in  love  with  the  modest, 
religious,  gentle  Joseph,  and  though  she  was  a  voluptuously  lovely 
woman,  whose  simple  smile  would  have  set  one  of  our  modern 
hearts  on  fire,  the  pious  Joseph  turned  from  her;  scorned  her 
proffered  love,  and  so  great  was  her  revenge,  that  she  endeavored 
to  destroy  his  life. 

But  Mary  Mandeville  was  one  of  those  gentle  creatures  who 
never  injured,  and  could  not  think  of  injuring  any  one.  Her  heart 


232  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARD. 

had  never  known  the  passion  of  revenge,  and  even  now,  when 
persecution  had  almost  driven  her  to  madness,  she  breathed  not  a 
word  of  bitterness;  not  a  single  avenging  word  against  those  who 
had  so  cruelly  blasted  the  bright  prospect  of  life  before  her,  and 
plunged  her  in  the  very  gulf  of  despair.  When  Henry  sat  down 
beside  her,  and  took  her  fair  hand  in  his,  she  looked  up  mourn- 
fully into  his  face,  and  said — 

"Dear  Henry,  you  are  very  generous  to  give  me  your  confidence 
and  affection,  when  you  do  not  know  but  that  every  word  that  has 
been  said  concerning  me  may  be  true." 

"Sweet  Mary,"  exclaimed  Henry,  as  he  folded  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  pressed  upon  her  lips  a  pure  impassioned  kiss,  "there  is  a 
consciousness  in  my  bosom  that  one  like  you  cannot  be  otherwise, 
than  pure  as  the  angels  are;  for  were  it  otherwise,  it  is  in  the  na- 
ture of  things  that  you  could  not  put  on  the  cloak  of  deceit  so  as 
to  deceive  me.  Those  who  wear  that  cloak  are  old  in  wrong  do- 
ing; the  pure  in  heart,  in  the  moment  of  their  fall,  cannot  hide 
their  guilt  from  the  experienced  eye;  they  have  not  learned  the 
art  to  cover  it." 

Poor  Mary,  at  these  words,  so  true  to  her  own  consciousness, 
endeavored  to  smile,  for  she  was  pleased  to  think  that  Henry  had 
confidence  in  her  virtue.  If  there  is  one  species  of  pride  that  fills 
the  heart  of  lovely  woman  to  the  exclusion  of  all  others,  it  is  that 
of  virtue.  And  well  may  she  take  pride  in  that,  for  it  is  the  jewel 
of  her  soul ;  it  is  the  charm  which  in  the  eyes  of  man  makes  all 
the  witcheries  of  woman.  Without  it,  she  is  nothing.  Take  from 
the  loveliest  woman  that  ever  trod  the  earth,  the  good  name  which 
belongs  to  woman  in  her  high  estate,  and  she  at  once  falls  like 
Lucifer,  not  as  Milton  presents  him  falling,  "nine  days,"  but  for- 
ever, forever.  She  can  never  rise  again. 

"It  is  sweet  to  rn.e  to  think,"  said  the  unhappy  girl,  still  gazing 
in  the  face  of  Henry,  "that  when  I  am  dead  and  shall  be  beyond 
the  reach  of  persecution,  that  you  will  believe  in  the  purity  of  this 
heart  which  is  now  beating  and  breaking  with  anguish.  Ah! 
Henry,  how  sad,  how  melancholy  I  feel,  when  I  think  of  the  hour 
when  with  all  a  woman's  tenderness  and  all  a  woman's  love  and 
hope,  I  pledged  you  this  poor  hand  in  marriage.  It  does  not 
make  me  sad  to  think  I  pledged  it  to  you,  but  oh!  how  happy  I  was 
then,  Henry!  Every  thing  in  life  was  bright  and  beautiful.  I 
looked  forward  and  saw  nothing  but  happiness — a  long  life  of 
happiness  with  the  man  that  my  heart  had  chosen.  But  ah!  how 
changed  is  the  prospect!  How  miserable " 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  233 

"Dearest  Mary,"  exclaimed  Henry,  interrupting  her,  "we  can 
still  be  happy.  You  are  the  same  to  me  that  you  have  ever  been, 
and  I  care  not  for  the  slanderous " 

"Ah!  but  /  do,  dear  Henry,"  returned  Mary,  as  she  clasped 
her  hands  as  if  in  devotion,  and  lifted  her  beautiful  eyes  to  heaven, 
"Oh!  yes,  I  must  care,  for  the  opinion  of  the  world  is  the  fiat  of 
fate." 

"Well,  dearest  Mary,  we  are  pledged  in  marriage;  let  us  be 
united  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock,  and  then  let  the  world  say 
what  it  will.  With  you  I  can  be  happy,  and  let  the  tongue  of 
slander  say  what  it  may,  I  am  satisfied  with  my  own  sweet  Mary." 

"  No,  Henry,  that  never  can  bet  Think  you,  that  I  would  wed 
and  hear  the  taunting  tongue  throw  the  base  report  that  now  trou- 
bles me  into  your  teeth  ?  No,  Henry,  no- — Oh  !  God,  my  heart  will 
burst,  my  brain  grows  wild — save  me,  Henry,  save  me!" 

The  unhappy  girl  uttered  the  last  words  in  a  wild  scream  as  she 
leaped  from  her  seat  beside  Henry.  She  rushed  across  the  floor 
with  uplifted  arms,  and  had  not  Henry  followed  her,  she  would 
have  fallen  to  her  injury ;  but  perceiving  the  extreme  paleness  of 
her  countenance,  he  stretched  his  arms  just  in  time  to  receive  the 
lovely  burthen  on  his  bosom.  She  swooned. 

The  fair  form  of  the  insensible  Mary  was  borne  to  a  bed,  where 
she  lay  some  hours  with  scarcely  any  signs  of  life.  The  sun  was 
just  sinking  below  the  western  horizon,  and  bathing  the  distant 
woodlands  in  his  golden  flood  of  light,  when  Mary  once  more 
opened  in  consciousness,  those  beautiful  eyes,  into  which  no  man 
could  look  without  feeling  a  thrill  of  pleasure,  and  at  the  same 
time  feeling  that  she  was  not  only  a  lovely  creature,  but  that  she 
was  one  who  approached  as  near  to  what  we  conceive  the  angels 
to  be,  as  any  of  womankind.  The  roses  had  perished  on  her 
cheeks,  and  yet  she  was  lovely.  There  is  a  charm  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  human  countenance  which  far  surpasses  all  the  bril- 
liance and  bloom  that  ever  gave  eclat  to  beauty.  Talk  of  female 
beauty!  What  is  it?  Those  who  judge  only  by  the  sight,  imagine 
that  it  is  an  assemblage  of  regular  features,  conjoined  with  a  bril- 
liant eye  and  fair  complexion.  But  beauty  to  the  man  of  intel- 
lect, is  a  far  different  thing.  We  look  upon  a  beautiful  face  with- 
out expression,  as  we  would  look  upon  a  picture,  that  delights  the 
eye  for  a  moment,  and  then  palls  upon  the  sight.  Not  so  with 
the  face  on  which  the  soul  of  woman  beams — on  which  we  read 
all  the  enraptured  feelings  of  the  heart.  Oh!  no.  I  have  gazed 
into  the  face,  and  into  the  eye  of  woman,  until  the  very  emotions 
30 


234  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

of  her  soul  seemed  to  become  tangible,  while  from  her  eye,  the 
feelings  of  her  heart  appeared  to  speak  with  a  more  irresistible 
eloquence,  than  ever  fell  from  the  tongue  of  Tully.  Such  beauty 
hath  no  transient  power.  It  is  not  gazed  on  and  passed  idly  by, 
but  its  influence  every  moment  gathers  strength,  till  the  soul  of 
the  gazer  is  led  captive  in  the  irrevocable  chains  of  love. 

Such  beauty  belonged  to  Mary  Mandeville.  Even  now,  when 
her  face  was  as  pale  as  that  of  beauty  that  hae  been  decked  and 
adorned  for  the  tomb,  she  was  still  fascinating,  still  lovely;  and 
few  could  have  gazed  upon  her  pale  face  as  she  turned  her  eye  to 
the  setting  sun,  the  light  of  which  was  streaming  in  golden  radi- 
ance through  the  window,  without  feeling  a  mingled  sentiment  of 
pity  and  love. 

It  has  ever  been  strange  to  me  that  some  women  (I  like  the 
word  woman;  it  is  more  poetical  than  that  of  lady] — I  say,  it  has 
ever  seemed  strange  to  me,  that  some  women  have  a  fascinating 
power  under  all  circumstances,  although  when  compared,  they 
may  be  inferior  in  form  and  features  to  many  others  at  whose 
shrine  the  hearts  of  men  scarcely  deign  to  bow.  It  is  evidently 
the  soul  that  gives  this  proud  and  imperious  charm ;  for  I  have 
seen  such  fascinating  creatures  even  in  sickness  exert  a  sway  that 
others  could  not.  acquire  in  the  full  bloom  of  beauty. 

Mary  turned  her  languid,  but  still  lovely  eye  towards  the  setting 
sun,  and  calmly  said,  "See  how  that  sun  sets — so  shall  I  go  down 
to  the  grave,  and  like  that  sun,  Henry,  I  hope  I  shall  leave  a  light 
behind  me  that  will  dispel  the  dark  shadows  that  rest  upon  my 
character.  Oh!  yes,  Henry,  I  fear  not  death — but  oh!  could  I 
have  met  death  before  my  fair  fame  had  been  assailed,  how  happy 
I  could  have  died  in  your  arms  as  your  affianced,  or  as  your  wedded 
wife!  But  alas!  I  am  doomed  to  die  of  a  broken  heart,  and 
doomed  to  die  unwed,  for  Henry,  I  can  never  consent  to  give 
these  poor  fading  charms  to  one  who  is  worthy  of  one  like  Mary 
was,  ere  the  blight  of  persecution  and  pollution  fell  upon  her 
name.  Oh!  Henry,  you  know  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and 
in  the  sight  of  heaven  we  are  one;  but  on  earth  never,  no  never, 
can  I  consent  to  link  my  name  with  yours  while  on  it  rests  the 
brand  of  infamy." 

"But,  Mary,  you  are  innocent — why  will  you  thus  talk?  -The 
best  of  God's  creation  may  be  assailed  by  slander,  but  that  is  no 
proof  of  guilt.  You  are  sinful  in  the  sight  of  heaven  by  thus 
suffering  your  mind  to  dwell  upon  a  phantom,  and  to  make  you 
wretched  without  any  real  cause." 


WRITINGS    OP  THE    MILFORD    BARD.  235 

"Say  not  so,  Henry,  dear  Henry,  for  you  know  not  the  sensi- 
bility of  a  virtuous  woman's  heart — you  know  not  the  delicacy  of 
woman's  honor.  Oh!  a  single  breath  may  destroy  it,  and  when 
once  destroyed,  not  all  the  powers  of  earth  can  restore  it.  As  I 
have  said  before,  what  matters  it  whether  the  charge  be  true  or 
false? — the  effect  is  the  same — ruin,  eternal  ruin.  Oh!  Henry, 
say  no  more.  I  am  as  much  undone  as  if  I  were  the  guiltiest 
wretch  on  earth." 

The  nerves  of  the  unhappy  Mary  had  become  so  much  unstrung, 
that  she  trembled  like  an  aspen-leaf,  and  Henry  saw  that  it  would 
be  unwise  to  say  more  on  the  subject.  With  the  promise  that  he 
would  come  again,  which  she  ardently  solicited,  he  arose,  took  his 
hat,  and  departed. 

Mary  Mandeville  had  become  altogether  another  being.  Once 
gay  and  happy,  she  was  now  gloomy  and  abstracted.  She  shunned 
all  society,  in  which  she  had  once  shone,  and  wandered  alone, 
amid  the  sublime  solitudes  of  nature.  There,  where  contempla- 
tion loves  to  dwell,  she  communed  with  herself,  and  wept  over  the 
fate  that  she  so  little  deserved.  Almost  at  times,  she  was  tempted 
to  arraign  that  Almighty  Power  that  guides  and  governs  the  uni- 
verse, for  the  destiny  that  had  come  upon  her;  but  in  her  sober 
reflection,  she  saw  that  all  her  griefs  had  sprung  from  the  despe- 
rate wickedness  of  the  human  heart. 

There  was  one  favorite  spot,  where  Mary  in  her  loneliness,  loved 
to  stray.  It  was  a  skirt  of  woodland  in  the  eastern  suburbs  of  the 
borough,  where  she  had  first  seen  Henry  during  a  walk.  A  party 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  strolling,  and  in  the  encounter  Mary 
was  made  acquainted  with  the  man  to  whom  she  was  now  be- 
trothed, but  to  whom  she  refused  to  fulfil  her  vows  on  account  of 
her  unmerited  obloquy.  On  this  spot,  now  sacred  to  the  heart, 
she  loved  to  muse  alone,  and  here  she  often  came  to  weep,  where 
no  one  would  break  in  on  the  privacy  of  her  grief.  She  now  went 
forth  from  her  once  happy  home,  as  Eve  passed  out  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden  before  the  flaming  sword  of  the  angel,  with  this  differ- 
ence, that  Eve  had  indeed  transgressed,  while  she  was  as  innocent 
as  the  angel  that  drove  Eve  forth.  Yes,  her  heart  knew  guile  only 
by  name.  Her  foot  had  never  even  trod  the  threshold  of  the  tem- 
ple of  shame. 

Gentle  reader,  if  you  be  a  lady,  on  whose  fair  fame  the  en- 
venomed breath  of  slander  has  never  breathed,  pause  for  a  mo- 
ment and  reflect.  Think  how  superlatively  wretched  that  sweet 
girl  must  have  been,  thus  stricken  down  by  evil  tongues,  when  at 


236  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  same  moment  she  was  as  innocent  as  the  sinless  child !  How 
apt  are  we  to  read  or  to  hear  of  the  sorrows  of  others,  and  to  pass 
over  the  matter  with  a  light  remark,  when  if  we  could  but  realize 
the  agony  of  the  heart  that  has  been  rent  without  cause,  we  would 
sympathize  in  the  deepest  degree.  Gentle  lady  reader,  identify 
yourself  with  her  forlorn  and  unfortunate  situation — imagine  your- 
self happy,  as  you  no  doubt  are — fancy  that  you  are  wooed  and 
won  by  a  noble-hearted  lover,  who  would  spurn  the  idea  of  blight- 
ing the  rose-bud  of  beauty's  loveliness — then  fancy  that,  at  the 
moment,  when  the  landscape  of  life  is  bursting  in  brilliance  and 
beauty  before  you,  and  you  are  looking  forward  to  a  life  of  wedded 
bliss,  the  deadly  blow  comes;  that  the  dagger  of  defamation  is 
levelled  at  your  heart,  and  that  all  the  bright  landscapes  of  love 
and  happiness  withers  and  fades  before  you.  Fancy,  in  less  figu- 
rative language,  that  in  an  unexpected  moment  the  hopes  and 
happiness  of  your  heart,  which  never  dreamed  of  wrong,*  are 
blasted  by  the  unrelenting  tongue  of  slander — fancy  to  yourself 
that  those  who  once  courted  your  society,  now  shun  you  as  a 
thing  of  pollution,  when  at  the  same  time,  you  know  that  your 
reputation  in  the  sight  of  heaven  is  unspotted — fancy  that  your 
name,  in  every  circle  of  society  which  you  once  adorned,  has  be- 
come a  by-word  and  a  reproach — Oh!  fancy  that  you,  as  innocent 
as  an  angel,  are  looked  upon  as  a  fallen  one  driven  from  the 
blooming  bowers  of  Paradise!  Then,  and  then  only,  can  you  in 
any  degree  realize  the  unutterable  woe  that  hung  like  a  cloud  over 
the  grave  of  Mary's  happiness.  Language  is  too  mean,  too  poor, 
to  portray  the  anguish  that  preyed  upon  the  soul  of  that  virtuous 
and  once  happy  girl.  She  was  as  sensitive  as  that  plant  which 
recoils  from  the  slightest  touch,  and  the  words  I  write,  you  can 
imagine,  for  you  could  not  express,  any  more  than  myself,  the  al- 
most inconceivable  misery  that  pure  and  gentle  girl  endured  under 
the  consciousness  that  she  was  charged  with  a  dereliction  from 
the  path  of  virtue,  when  she  was  conscious  in  her  own  mind  that 
she  was  innocent,  even  in  thought. 

My  dear  reader,  pardon  me,  while  I  make  another  digression. 
The  man  who  would  deliberately  slander  so  sweet  a  girl  as  Mary 
Mandeville,  is  a  villain — a  villain  of  the  darkest  dye.  Is  there, 
can  there  be  a  man  so  base,  so  dead  to  all  the  dictates  of  honor, 
as  to  breathe  suspicion  upon  the  character  of  lovely  woman, — as 
to  trail  as  did  the  serpent  his  venom  over  the  the  cradle  of  inno- 
cence in  Eden,  and,  demon  like,  desecrate  the  holy  temple  of 
love  in  the  heart?  If  there  is  such  a  man,  who  would  knowingly 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  237 

destroy  the  peace  of  mind  and  the  reputation  of  a  virtuous  and 
happy  lady,  I  know  of  no  punishment  severe  enough  for  him. 
Pluto's  dominions  would  not  be  too  gloomy  for  such  a  wretch. 
And  why?  Because  he  had  far  better  plunge  a  dagger  to  her 
heart,  and  consign  her  to  the  solemn  silence  of  the  tomb,  than  to 
steal  from  her  the  precious  gem,  her  honor,  robbed  of  which  she 
sinks  from  the  glory  of  an  earthly  angel  to  a  degree  of  degradation 
far  below  the  meanest  of  the  human  race.  Oh!  I  can  never  for- 
give that  man  who,  for  the  accomplishment  of  the  ruin  of  a  politi- 
cal rival,  would  destroy  an  unoffending  woman.  It  is  in  the  nature 
of  woman,  when  her  heart  is  swayed  by  the  deep  devotion  of  love, 
to  sacrifice  every  thing  to  the  happiness  of  him  she  loves.  I  know 
such  to  be  the  generous  nature  of  woman.  I  never  appealed  to  her 
in  vain,  whether  it  was  for  her  love,  her  sympathy  oi» assistance. 
How  base  then  must  he  be  who  would  betray  the  confiding  heart  of 
that  gentle  creature  who,  in  the  fullness  of  her  regard,  would  sac- 
rifice her  very  life  to  render  him  happy!  I  consider  such  slander 
the  worst  of  crimes — and  why?  It  is  worse  than  murder,  be- 
cause both  body  and  soul  are  slaughtered.  To  ruin  the  hopes  and 
happiness  of  her  who  loves,  is  downright  murder  of  the  mind,  and 
then  the  victim  of  perfidy  pines  and  perishes  soon  or  late,  while  a 
pang  is  left  in  the  heart  of  her  friends.  Oh!  it  is  crime  as  black 
as  night — crime  of  the  darkest,  deepest  dye,  that  nothing  can 
palliate,  nothing  atone  for! 

But  alas!  poor  Mary  was  suffering  all  the  pangs  and  penalties 
of  such  an  act  of  villainy,  without  any  of  the  guilt.  She  was  en- 
during the  scoffs  and  the  scorn  of  the  world,  without  any  con- 
sciousness of  having  merited  it.  She  was  rudely  thrown  from  the 
circle  of  society  which  she  had  adorned,  and  was  spurned  by  those 
who  had  eagerly  sought  her  friendship,  when,  at  the  same  time, 
she  was  as  pure,  as  lovely  and  as  confiding,  as  she  had  ever  been. 
Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  she  wandered  into  the  wilds  of  soli- 
tude and  shed  the  unavailing  tears  of  regret?  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  her  heart,  the  home  of  the  most  exalted  love  and  every  ten- 
der emotion,  should  be  breaking  in  despair?  Oh!  tell  me,  you 
who  are  young  and  lovely,  whose  hearts  now  throb  with  the  vo- 
luptuous luxuries  of  love,  is  it  any  wonder  that  the  beautiful  Mary 
Mandeville  should  be  pining  away  in  hopeless  agony,  beneath 
unrelenting  persecution? 

And  Mary  was  indeed  pining  away.  Gradually  the  roses,  one  by 
one,  faded  on  her  cheek,  until  she  seemed  like  some  lost  spirit,  as 
she  glided  along  the  street.  But  in  her  tears,  if  possible,  she  was 


238  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

more  lovely  than  she  had  ever  been.  Beauty  in  tears  has  a  charm 
which  all  the  sunny  smiles  of  joy  can  never  give.  The  sight  of 
the  weeping  Mary  won  the  hearts  of  men,  who  never  would  have 
loved  her  under  happier  auspices.  They  pitied  first,  and  pity 
always  unlocks  the  heart  to  love.  Were  I  a  lady,  and  had  I  the 
desire  to  win  the  heart  of  the  man  on  whom  I  had  set  my  heart, 
I  would  wish  to  be  in  grief  that  he  might  witness  my  tears;  for  I 
have  more  than  once  witnessed  the  irresistible  power  of  beauty  in 
tears.  Hard,  indeed,  must  be  the  heart  of  that  man,  who  can 
witness  such  a  scene  unmoved — who  can  coldly  mark  her  grief 
and  not  love  her. 

Henry  had  loved  Mary  devotedly  before  this  blight  of  scandal 
had  fallen  upon  her  fair  fame;  but  now,  when  he  marked  her  pale 
cheek  and  4er  eye  suffused  with  tears,  his  pity  blended  with  his 
love,  and  the  flame  on  the  altar  of  his  heart  was  increased*  He 
wooed  her  by  every  means  in  his  power,  from  the  subject  of  her 
grief,  but  he  wooed  in  vain.  So  great  was  the  sensibility  of  her 
soul,  that  she  could  not  believe  the  world  would  look  over,  or  par- 
don the  stab  which  had  been  given  to  her  fair  fame. 

Some  time  after  Mary  had  left  the  store,  Mr.  Whitefield  heard 
of  the  great  distress  under  which  she  was  laboring,  and  he  called 
to  see  her  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  could  reason  away  the  effects 
of  slander.  Vain  hope  indeed!  He  might  as  well  have  attempted 
to  move  the  solid  mountain  from  its  base,  as  to  have  undertaken 
to  have  healed  that  wound  which  the  dagger  of  slander  had  in- 
flicted in  her  heart. 

When  Mr.  Whitefield,  her  ever  steadfast  friend,  entered,  she  was 
reclining  on  a  couch;  in  one  hand  she  held  a  book,  from  which 
she  had  averted  her  eyes,  in  the  act  of  contemplation ;  her  hair, 
though  neglected,  still  hung  in  beautiful  tresses  around  the  other 
hand  and  arm,  which  supported  a  head  as  lovely  as  that  of  Hebe; 
yes,  no  less  beautiful  than  that  of  Venus.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
loose  white  robe,  beneath  the  hem  of  which  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful little  feet  in  the  world  was  protruded,  which,  of  itself,  was 
enough  to  captivate  a  less  sensitive  heart  than  my  own. 

Oh!  if  there  is  any  thing  in  beauty  that  has  a  silent  and  irresis- 
tible power,  it  is  the  unintentional  exhibition  of  a  sweet  little  foot, 
encased  in  a  slipper  as  delicate  as  itself.  Then,  in  the  language 
of  Moore,  the  fabulist, 

"The  very  shoe  has  power  tu  wound." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  239 

So  deeply  was  the  mind  of  Mary  engaged  in  contemplation, 
that  she  did  not  notice  her  friend  and  benefactor  when  he  entered, 
and  it  was  not  until  he  called  her  by  name,  in  that  brotherly  tone 
to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  that  she  awoke  to  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  presence.  Stretching  forth  her  beautiful  white  hand, 
she  said,  "Ah!  Mr.  Whitefield  you  have  come  to  look  upon  the 
wreck  of  human  happiness — you  have  come  to  look  upon  one  who 
might  have  been  one  of  the  happiest  of  our  race,  and  whom  God 
constituted  to  be  happy,  but  who  by  the  ungenerous  tongue  of 
slander,  is  made  one  of  the  most  wretched." 

"  Say  not  so,  Mary,"  replied  Mr.  Whitefield,  assuming  a  levity 
he  did  not  feel,  "  there  are  many  happy  days  in  store  for  you." 

"  No,  never,  never,"  exclaimed  the  unhappy  girl,  at  the  same 
time  bursting  into  tears,  "I  can  never  be  happy  again." 

"  Mary,  you  do  wrong  to  give  way  to  a  mere  tale"  of  defamation." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  cannot  help  it.  The  fortune-teller  told  me  true 
— my  heart  is  breaking,  Mr.  Whitefield,  but  I  shall  ever  remember 
your  kindness  with  gratitude,  though  evil  tongues  have  linked  my 
destiny  with  yours." 

"  Yes,  Mary,  I  regret  it  on  your  account,  and  could  I  find  the 
villain  whose  mean  tongue  first  uttered  the  base  imputation,  I 
would  drag  it  from  his  mouth  and  nail  it  on  the  highest  wall.  I 
have  sought  him,  diligently  sought  him,  but  I  have  not  yet  found 
the  man  who  dared  to  avow  it." 

"  I  forgive  him,  oh!  my  best  friend,  I  forgive  him,"  said  the  poor 
girl,  as  the  tears  streamed  afresh  from  her  eyes.  "  Yes,  I  forgive 
him  with  all  my  heart,  though  I  shall  not  long  remain  to  be  the 
scoff*  and  scorn  of  that  world  that  he  has  incensed  against  me. 
No,  no;  I  feel  it  here,"  and  the  lovely,  persecuted  girl  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  heart,  that  was  indeed  breaking  in  despair. 

Mr.  Whitefield  gazed  upon  her  for  a  moment,  as  she  sat  with 
her  beautiful  eyes  upraised  to  heaven,  from  which  the  large  round 
tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  So  touching  was  her  ap- 
pearance, that  he  could  bear  it  no  longer;  his  fortitude  gave  way, 
and  turning  from  her,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept. 
The  thought  that  he  had  unintentionally  been  the  cause  of  the 
ruin  of  so  sweet,  so  lovely  a  girl,  touched  him  to  the  soul,  and 
without  uttering  another  word,  he  arose  and  left  the  room.  His 
anguish  was  little  less  than  hers,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  doomed, 
in  the  hey-day  of  her  beauty,  to  be  a  bride — not  the  bride  of  him 
she  loved — but  the  bride  of  death.  Yes,  he  saw  that  the  roses 
were  perishing  on  her  cheek,  for  the  evidence  was  as  plain  to  his 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

eyes  as  to  those  of  Henry.  He  felt  a  deep  interest  in  her  fate. 
And  where  is  the  honorable  man,  whose  heart  is  alive  to  the  finer 
sensibilities  of  our  nature,  who  would  not?  It  was  a  source  to 
him  of  the  keenest  pain,  that  the  slanderer  should  have  made  him 
the  immediate  instrument  of  her  ruin;  and  not  less  did  it  give  him 
pain,  that  no  persuasion,  no  entreaties  could  prevail  upon  her  to 
look  upon  it  as  a  mere  idle  tale  of  scandal,  which  would  pass  away 
with  the  political  excitement.  She  still  contended  that  the  effect 
was  the  same,  be  it  true  or  false;  the  world  would  believe  it;  her 
name  would  be  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  the  thoughtless,  and  that 
even  the  grave,  to  which  she  was  hastening,  could  not  shield  her 
from  the  hyena-like  fangs  of  the  slanderer.  And  poor,  persecuted, 
though  still  pure  and  lovely  Mary,  was  right.  Without  the  shadow 
of  a  cause  on  her  part,  she  was,  in  the  first  instance,  slandered ; 
and  without  any  cause  on  her  part,  the  slander  pursued  her,  link- 
ing her  name  with  infamy. 

Oh!  how  cautious  should  we  be  in  speaking  of  the  reputation 
of  another,  for,  to  quote  that  passage  of  Shakspeare,  of  which  I 
before  quoted  a  part,  and  I  quote  from  memory — 

"Who  steals  my  purse  steals  trash, 
Tis  something,  nothing — 'twas  mine,  'tis  his, 
And  has  been  slave  to  thousands — 
But  he  who  filches  from  me  my  good  name, 
_  Robs  me  of  that  which  enriches  not  him, 

But  makes  me  poor  indeed." 

Too  often  has  the  delicate  fame  of  beautiful  woman  been  blasted 
by  a  simple  and  innocent  act  which  has  been  seen  by  a  prying 
eye.  A  stolen  kiss,  or  a  glance  of  the  eye,  has  been  tortured  into 
guilt  by  the  evil  mind,  and  a  confidential  meeting  between  two 
hearts,  that  were  pledged  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  has  been  noticed 
and  retailed  to  the  eternal  ruin  of  her  who  dreamed  not  of  wrong. 
The  fame  of  lovely  woman  should  not  be  assailed  on  trivial  grounds, 
for  if  it  once  receive  a  stain,  it  can  never  be  washed  away. 

It  was  thus  with  Mary  Mandeville.  A  few  circumstances, 
trifling  in  themselves,  and  which  involved  no  guilt,  were  the  sole 
ground  on  which  the  tale  was  founded,  which  was  now  sapping 
the  very  fountain  of  her  life 

Mary  had  long  had  a  desire  to  go  to  the  West,  to  see  her  rela- 
tives, but  the  pride  of  woman  still  clung  to  her  heart  when  all  else 
had  flown;  she  resolved  not  to  go  until  she  had  proven  to  the 
world,  by  the  lapse  of  time,  that  the  story  of  her  disgrace  was 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  241 

false — ay,  false  as  the  tales  which  the  serpent  whispered  into  the 
ear  of  Eve.  Months  passed  away,  and  instead  of  being  soothed 
by  the  oblivion  that  time  generally  brings,  she  became  more  and 
more  unhappy.  Every  day  left  its  traces  in  the  increased  paleness 
of  that  beautiful  cheek,  where  so  recently  had  been  seen  the  bloom 
of  beauty.  Every  day  when  Henry  came,  and  found  that  it  was 
vain  to  attempt  to  woo  her  back  to  hope  and  happiness,  he  sal  and 
silently  gazed  into  her  face,  so  pale,  so  interesting,  and  ever  and 
anon  a  tear  stole  down  his  face. 

Mary  now  spent  most  of  her  time  in  her  room,  bowing  in  devo- 
tion before  her  "God.  She  knew  that  she  was  fading  away,  that 
her  heart  was  breaking,  that  she  would  ere  long  be  the  bride  of 
death,  and  she  prayed  to  God  to  forgive  her  enemies;  to  pardon 
those  who  had  planted  daggers  in  her  heart,  and  had  doomed  her 
to  go  down  to  the  grave  in  the  very  morning  of  her  bloom  and 
beauty.  The  heart  of  that  fond,  affectionate  girl,  felt  no  animosity 
against  a  living  creature;  and  oh!  how  cruel  it  was  to  blight  so 
lovely,  so  gentle  a  being! 

"  Mary,"  said  Henry,  one  day  when  he  found  her  alone,  "the 
day  appointed  for  our  marriage  is  past,  are  you  resolved  still  to 
deny  me,  and  to  make  me  as  wretched  as  yourself?" 

"Oh!  Henry,"  exclaimed  the  still  beautiful  girl,  turning  her 
exquisite  eyes  upwards,  and  clasping  her  dear  little  hands,  "for- 
give me — forgive  me.  I  know,  Henry,  that  you  believe  me  inno- 
cent, but  the  stain  of  imputed  guilt  is  on  me,  and  I  cannot  consent 
to  go  to  your  arms  anything  less  than  Caesar  wished  his  wife — not 
only  virtuous,  but  above  suspicion.  I  cannot  consent  to  be  the 
wife  of  a  man  whom  the  world  would  taunt  with  having  lavished 
his  affections  on  a  fallen  woman.  It  is  some  consolation  to  know, 
that  my  heart  is  innocent  of  even  a  thought  of  error,  but  that  very 
consciousness  renders  the  sting  of  reproach  more  severe!  for  were 
I  guilty,  that  guilt  would  destroy  sensibility — yes,  I  should  not 
feel  insult  so  keenly.  Dear  Henry,  I  speak  to  you  thus  plainly, 
because  I  feel  that  I  am  fast  fading  away.  I  shall  not  remain  long 
with  you — my  heart  is  breaking — I  cannot  consent  to  give  you 
the  persecuted  wreck  of  my  beauty — Oh!  no,  no,  no. — Forgive 
me,  Henry,  for  I  still  love  you  as  dearly  as  ever." 

"  Mary,  I  do  forgive  you;  but  are  you  to  perish  beneath  the  in- 
fliction of  an  idle  tale  of  slander?" 

"Oh!  Henry,  for  heaven's  sake,  say  no  more!"  exclaimed  the 
now  frantic  girl.     "  It  will  drive  me  to  madness,  Henry-^-yes,  yes, 
I  shall  go  mad,  mad,  mad!" 
31 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

As  she  spoke  these  words,  she  leaped  from  the  side  of  Henry, 
who  had  been  holding  her  hand  in  his— her  unbound  hair  fell  in 
masses  over  her  symmetrical  shoulders — her  eye  was  burning  with 
the  wild  intensity  of  grief,  and  as  she  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  with  her  hands  clasped  and  her  eyes  raised  to  heaven,  she 
looked  like  some  inspired  being.  Ophelia  or  Desdemona,  in  their 
woe-worn  moments,  were  not  more  fascinating  than  was  Mary, 
though  she  was  totally  unconscious  that  a  single  charm  lingered 
around  her.  Though  long  continued  agony  had  rendered  her 
pale — though  the  joyous  brightness  that  once  laughed  in  her  eye 
was  gone — and  though  that  mirthfulness,  which  belongs  to  a 
young  girl,  no  longer  broke  from  her  luxurious  lips  in  tones  sweet 
as  those  that  are  breathed  by  the  jEolian  harp,  yet  there  were 
charms  around  her  even  in  her  despair,  which  were  irresistibly 
touching. 

Poor  Mary ;  she  obstinately  refused  to  fulfil  her  vow  of  marriage, 
though  in  her  happy  days,  when  she  made  it,  she  eagerly  looked 
forward  to  her  union  with  Henry  as  the  height  of  her  happiness. 
Alas!  that  her  brilliant  and  beautiful  dream  should  have  been  so 
soon  destroyed !  It  was  a  bright  and  transient  dream  of  happiness 
from  which  she  awoke,  and  wept  to  find  herself  undone. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  still  Mary  was  fading  away  like  a  beautiful 
flower  nipt  by  untimely  frost.  Time  had  proven  one  part,  by 
doing  the  work  of  death.  Her  gentle  heart,  so  full  of  tenderness, 
was  silently  and  slowly  breaking,  and  she  felt  that  it  could  not 
continue  to  beat  much  longer.  Often,  when  alone,  did  she  place 
her  pretty  little  hand  on  her  heart,  and  while  she  felt  its  tumul- 
tuous throbbings,  she  would  shake  her  beautiful  head,  and  say  in 
a  low  mellow  tone,  "Beat  on  little  world  of  love  and  woe,  the 
struggle  will  soon  be  over.  You  cannot  ache  with  anguish  much 
longer,  and  oh!  that  will  be  a  happy  day  for  me,  when  your  pul- 
sations will  cease,  and  these  eyes  which  were  once  admired,  will 
be  closed  forever;  I  shall  sleep  quietly  in  the  grave." 

As  Mary  had  long  intended  to  go  to  the  West  to  see  her  rela- 
tions, her  friends  persuaded  her  to  depart,  under  the  belief  and 
hope  that  a  change  of  scene  would  relieve  her  mind  and  recall  her 
back  to  life.  But  it  was  a  vain  hope.  No  power  on  earth  could 
revivify  that  delicate  spirit,  which  like  a  bird  that  has  received  a 
shot  in  the  heart,  falls,  and  can  never  take  wing  again. 

Mary  went  to  the  West,  and  in  travelling,  passed  through  many 
sublime  scenes,  that  under  other  circumstances,  would  have  en- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  243 

raptured  her  mind;  but  now  the  poor,  unhappy  girl  was  like  the 
captive  Indian,  who  looked  upon  the  stately  tree,  but  could  see 
no  beauty  in  it  because  he  was  unhappy.  Her  friends  in  the  West 
sought  every  means  to  soothe  her  mind,  and  to  soften  the  circum- 
stances which  had  been  the  cause  of  her  woe,  but  they  sought  in 
vain.  There  is  a  bound  to  all  human  suffering — a  barrier,  which 
if  not  passed,  the  wounded  heart  may  recover  from  its  pangs;  but 
when  that  barrier  is  passed,  hopeless,  irremediable  woe  is  the  con- 
sequence. The  shadows  of  despair  had  long  since  gathered  on 
Mary's  pale  brow,  and  when  she  sat  at  the  window,  gazing  upon 
the  morning  sun,  as  he  drove  up  his  fiery  steeds  over  the  golden 
woodlands  of  the  West,  and  turned  her  ear  to  listen  to  the  hol- 
low, mournful  winds  of  November,  she  looked  like  some  unearthly 
being — like  some  unhappy  angel  that  had  strayed  from  the  bowers 
of  Paradise. 

"Oh!  I  am  sick,  sick  to  my  very  heart,"  she  said  one  day,  as 
she  laid  down  the  book  she  had  been  reading.  "I  must  go  to  my 
bed,  and  I  feel  that  I  shall  never  leave  it  until  this  heart  shall  know 
its  griefs  no  more." 

Her  cousin  Julia  wept,  as  she  assisted  the  unhappy  sufferer  to 
her  bed. 

"Oh!  Julia,  my  heart  indeed  is  breaking,"  said  Mary,  in  a 
melancholy  tone  of  voice.  "I  feel  it  is  breaking  as  sensibly  as  I 
felt  the  joy  of  love  when  Henry  wooed  and  won  it.  Weep  not 
for  me,  dear  cousin  Julia,  I  fear  not  death,  and  I  shall  soon  be 
where  the  cruel  voice  of  traduction  cannot  molest  me.  The  voice 
of  slander  cannot  break  in  on  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death,  and  in 
the  solitary  grave  I  shall  weep  no  more.  Oh!  Julia,  how  much  I  ' 
have  suffered !  If  he,  or  they,  who  invented  the  slander,  could 
know  what  I  have  endured,  I  know  they  would  pity  me.  My 
heart  aches — Oh!  how  it  aches!"  and  the  fair,  dying  girl  threw 
her  head  back  on  the  pillow,  and  breathed  one  of  those  deep 
heartfelt  sighs  which  come  from  the  very  depths  of  the  soul. 

Mary  had  ceased  to  weep.  The  fountain  of  her  tears  was  dried 
up.  Ah!  yes,  she  had  passed  that  acme  of  suffering,  beyond 
which  tears  are  never  known.  As  she  lay  in  her  loose  white  robe 
upon  the  bed,  she  looked  like  some  beautiful  being  that  was 
dressed  in  the  habiliments  of  death,  and  just  ready  to  be  placed 
in  that  cradle  of  mortality,  in  which  we  convey  our  friends  to  the 
city  of  the  dead.  Her  friends  crowded  around  her,  young  and 
old;  and  with  all  the  eloquence  they  could  command,  essayed  to 


244  WRITINGS    OP  "THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

win  her  back  to  hope,  to  happiness,  and  life ;  but  their  efforts  as 
before,  were  all  in  vain. 

"Dear  friends,  whom  1  love  dearly,"  said  the  dying  girl,  as  she 
clung  round  the  neck  of  her  aunt,  who  had  stooped  to  kiss  her, 
"I  am  fhe  bride  of  death — I  feel  that  I  can  never  survive,  and  oh! 
I  look  forward  to  the  grave  as  my  only  solace,  for  from  the  lenity 
of  this  world  I  can  expect  no  sympathy." 

Finding  that  their  tears  and  persuasions  were  of  no  avail,  her 
friends  ceased  to  importune  her,  and  turned  all  their  kind  atten- 
tions to  smooth  her  pathway  to  the  tomb,  for  so  rapidly  did  she 
now  decline,  that  they  Saw  there  was  no  hope.  Her  cousin  Julia 
was  a  lovely  girl,  vf ho"  possessed  a  warm  heart,  and  she  hung 
around  her  bed  like  a  ministering  angel. 

Oh!  how  I  love  that  devotion  of  angel  woman  at  the  bed-side 
of  suffering  humanity!  If  there  is  a  scene  on  earth  on  which 
angels  look  with  pleasure,  it  is  to  see  woman  at  the  bed-side, 
soothing  and  softening  human  woe. 

The  fame  of  Mary's  beauty,  amiability  and  suffering,  together 
with  the  romance  which  a  hundred  stories  had  gathered  around 
her,  called  many  a  curious  eye  to  look  upon  the  lovely  victim  of 
persecution,  and  to  drop  a  tear  over  her  misfortunes. 

Mr.  Whitefield  felt  so  deep  an  interest  in  the  fate  of  the  poor, 
persecuted  girl,  that  when  he  learned  that  she  was  so  fast  fading 
away,  he  resolved,  if  possible,  to  have  her  restored  to  her  parental 
home.  He  had  hitherto  imagined  that  the  stories  respecting  her 
dangerous  situation  were  untrue  or  exaggerated ;  but  no  sooner 
did  he  learn  that  the  unfortunate  Mary  was  about  to  bid  adieu  to 
the  world  forever,  than  he  resolved  to  have  her  brought  back  to 
the  bosom  of  her  family.  And  oh!  how  sweet  is  that  word  to 
those  who  know  the  joys  of  home — home,  home,  sweet  home ! 
None  know  the  joys  of  that  word  but  those  who  are  dying  in  a 
far  distant  land. 

Mr.  Whitefield  determined,  if  possible,  in  spite  of  slanderous 
imputations,  to  have  the  dying  girl  brought  back  to  her  once 
happy  home.  To  accomplish  this  object,  he  appealed  to  the  sym- 
pathy of  Mr.  Simpson,  who  possessed  a  heart  that,  in  the  language 
of  Pope,  could 

"Feel  for  others'  woes." 

Mr.  Simpson  was  a  man  whose  soul,  like  that  of  Mr.  Whitefield, 
did  not  quail  beneath  the  bitter  and  uncalled  for  sarcasm  of  the 
world.  He  had  just  returned  to  town,  and  the  moment  that  Mr. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  245 

Whitefield  related  to  him  what  he  alreadylinew  respecting  the  ill- 
fated  victim  of  persecution,  he,  like  a  true  knight  in  the  days  of 
chivalry,  resolved  to  espouse  the  cause  of  injured  Woman — re- 
solved to  hazard  his  life  in  protecting  and  assisting  a  fair  ladyjthe 
bloom  of  whose  beauty  had  been  blasted  by  perfidious  tongues. 
And  where  is  the  man  who  would  not  thus  boldly  step  forth  in 
defence  of  trampled  innocence  and  beauty  ?  Does  he  breathe  upon 
this  land  of  intelligence  and  freedom  ?  If  there  be  such  an  one, 
let  him  fly  to  the  wilds  of  Africa,  and  hug  the  hungry  tiger  to 
his  heart,  for  such  a  man  is  unworthy  of 'the  affections  of  lovely 
woman. 

As  I  said  before,  Mr.  Simpson  resolved  Instanter  to  espouse  the 
cause  of  the  fair  and  fading  Mary.  With  Mr.  Whitefield,  he 
looked  upon  her  as  one  who  had  been  cruelly  and  causelessly 
abused,  for  well  he  knew  that  the  sole  cause  of  her  despair  was 
the  persecution  of  that  party  spirit  which  had  raged,  and  which 
to  reach  Mr.  Whitefield,  had  unfeelingly  stabbed  her  to  the  heart. 
It  is  singular  how  pertinacious  human  nature  is  in  pursuing  that 
for  which  the  cause  has  died  away.  Even  after  the  excitement  of 
the  election  had  passed,  the  envenomed  tongue  of  slander  could 
not  be  still.  No,  it  was  not  suffered  to  rest.  Why  is  if  that  hu- 
man nature  pursues  with  deadly  animosity  the  object  in  whose 
breast  it  has  once  fixed  its  horrid  pangs?  Is  it  that  man  is  like 
the  ferocious  beast — that  when  he  once  gets  a  taste  of  blood,  he 
must  have  the  victim  ? 

It  seemed  so  in  this  instance,  for,  though  every  proof  had  been 
given  that  the  dying  Mary  was  innocent,  the  detractors  of  her 
fame  pursued  her  still.  This  Mr.  Simpson  knew,  and  one  even- 
ing, in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  declared  before  heaven  that  he 
would  risk  his  life  in  her  defence,  though  he  claimed  no  ties  of 
kindred  with  her.  any  more  than  subsisted  between  her  and  the 
man  (Mr.  Whitefield)  who  had  been  the  innocent  cause  of  all  her 
woes. 

It  happened,  the  evening  before  Mr.  Simpson  started  for  the 
West,  that  he  called  upon  a  lady  who  had  often  charmed  him  with 
her  conversational  powers. 

"Well,  Mr.  Simpson,"  said  Elmira  St.  Glair,  "I  am  told  that 
you  are  going  to  the  West  as  a  cavalier.  In  other  words,"  she 
observed,  laughing,  "I  heard  that  you  were  to  become  the  knight 
of  the  fallen " 

"Fallen!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Simpson,  starting  from  his  seat — 
"Oh!  Miss  Elmira,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  as  to  use  such  Ian- 


246  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

guage?     How  can  you  persecute  one  of  your  sex  in  so  unkind  a 
manner?     Take  back  those  words." 

"Take  them  back,"  said  she,  with  a  supercilious  look — "what 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  you  are  cruel  to  one  of  the  loveliest  of  her  sex — 
you  know  her,  poor,  persecuted  Mary." 

This  appeal  to  the  feelings  of  Elmira,  touched  her  heart,  and 
she  hesitated  to  reply. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Simpson,  in  continuation,  "how  is  it 
that  you  will  defend  a  man  who  does  wrong,  and  yet  you  refuse 
all  sympathy  to  a  sister  who  is  only  charged  with  that  which  every 
one  cries  aloud  is  false?  Why  is  it?  »,^v 

Elmira  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  Mr.  Simpson  saw 
evidence  of  considerable  emotion. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Simpson,  "I  see  that  you  repent  of  the 
language  you  have  used,  and  I  hope  you  will  never  again  triflfe 
with  feelings  which  are  breaking  another's  heart." 

Elmira  burst  into  tears,  and  Mr.  Simpson,  a  graceful  and  gen- 
tlemanly man,  arose,  took  her  hand,  pressed  it  kindly,  and  left  the 
room. 

The  next  day  he  took  his  departure  to  the  West,  to  bear  back 
the  fading  flower,  which  so  many  wished  to  see  restored  to  her 
native  garden,  to  be  revived  again. 

When  Mr.  Simpson  left  the  lovely  Elmira,  she  began  to  reflect 
on  what  he  had  said — she  began  to  reflect  on  the  language  she 
had  used  toward  one  of  her  sex,  in  whom  she  had  never  seen  any 
guile.  She  thought  of  the  agonies  that  must  rend  the  heart  of 
Mary,  because  she  placed  herself  in  the  situation  of  the  forlorn 
persecuted  girl,  and  fancied  to  herself  how  she  would  feel  under 
similar  circumstances.  The  heart  of  woman  is  easily  touched, 
and  the  more  she  thought  of  it  the  more  was  her  sympathy  ex- 
cited, until  her  heart  began  to  flutter  with  that  indescribable  feel- 
ing which  precedes  a  burst  of  sorrow.  The  tide  of  emotion  came 
rolling  over  her  bosom,  and  the  beautiful  Elmira,  who  was  not 
wanting  in  generous  feeling,  burst  into  tears,  and  fell  upon  the 
sofa,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Thus  it  often  is;  we  speak  lightly  of  the  woes  of  others,  and 
even  make  a  breaking  heart  the  subject  of  our  merriment,  when, 
if  we  were  to  reflect  one  moment,  and  place  ourselves  in  the  situ- 
ation of  this  afflicted  one,  our  hearts  would  melt  in  sympathy  and 
sorrow.  Ah !  yes,  were  we  to  identify  ourselves  with  the  griefs  of 
those  whom  we  make  our  sport,  we  should  sigh  instead  of  smile, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  247 

and  drop  a  tear  of  regret  instead  of  sporting  in  levity  over  the 
woes  that  are  preying  like  a  vampire  on  the  bosom  of  another. 

Elmira  bent  her  beautiful  head  back  over  the  sofa,  while  her 
clustering  curls  hung  like  grapes  of  gold  around  her  swan-like 
»eck,  and  she  looked  like  the  representation  of  queen  Dido,  at  the 
moment  when  she,  through  unfortunate  love,  stabbed  herself  to 
the  heart. 

Oh!  there  is  something  irresistibly  touching  in  beauty,  when 
thus  thrown  into  a  paroxysm  of  grief.  The  words  of  Mr.  Simpson 
were  continually  ringing  in  her  ears,  and  the  more  she  thought  of 
them,  the  more  she  repented  of  having  trifled  with  the  sorrows  of 
the  poor,  heart  broken  Mary. 

But  the  -epentance  of  the  fair  and  exquisitely  beautiful  Elmira 
could  be  of  no  avail  in  relieving  the  heart  of  poor,  dying  Mary. 
She  little  knew  that  that  sweet  girl  was  so  rapidly  going  down  to 
the  silent  city  of  the  dead,  or  her  regret  for  her  levity  would  have 
been  much  greater. 

Mr.  Simpson,  as  observed  before,  departed  for  the  West,  as  the 
knights  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  went  forth  in  defence  of  some 
ladye  fayre.  But  though  he  had  started  on  a  generous,  a  noble 
expedition,  his  travel  was  not  unmarked  by  adventure.  He  had 
scarcely  proceeded  a  hundred  miles,  ere  his  elegant  charger  took 
fright,  ran,  and  despite  his  being  a  good  rider,  threw  him,  and  he 
fell  head  foremost  against  an  oak.  Covered  with  blood,  he  lay 
unnoticed  for  some  time,  until  a  shepherd  happened  to  pass,  and, 
seeing  him,  supposed  him  to  be  dead.  While  he  was  gazing  upon 
him,  fearful  to  approach,  his  two  sisters  came  into  the  woodland, 
and  drew  near.  Though  naturally  timid,  as  we  always  find  women 
in  those  circumstances  of  life  which  do  not  call  forth  their  bravery, 
when  anything  happens  calculated  to  call  forth  her  spirit — when 
humanity  calls  upon  her,  she  drops  that  spirit  of  the  Iamb,  and  as- 
sumes that  of  the  lion.  Not  as  man  does — not  in  the  angry  pas- 
sions, but  she  rises  in  fortitude,  and  boldly  dares  everything  for 
the  relief  of  the  suffering.  Heavenly  woman,  what  will  she  not 
dare  when  sorrow,  sickness  and  misfortune  call  upon  her? 

The  two  rustic  maids  had  the  young  Simpson  conveyed,  in  an 
insensible  condition,  to  their  humble  home  in  the  woods.  There, 
like  ministering  angels,  they  watched  over  him  with  assiduous  care 
until  he  recovered;  for  whenever  woman  beholds  man  in  misfor- 
tune, particularly  where  she  sees  in  him  the  trace  of  elegance, 
refinement  and  mind,  though  he  may  have  no  claim  to  beauty,  she 
will  never  desert  him.  She  will  watch  by  his  bedside  with  an 


248  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

unblinking  eye,  when  all  others  sleep,  and  pay  him  that  devotion 
which  man,  with  all  his  boasted  fortitude,  can  never  pay  even  to 
woman.  Hence  comes  the  witchery  of  woman.  When  nothing 
calls  for  the  exercise  of  her  fortitude,  she  will  start  at  the  sighing 
of  the  blast,  9t,the  hum  of  an  insect;  but  when  she  sees  a  fellow- 
being  in  distress,  she  becomes  strong  and  fearless ;  or  when  she  sees 
two  men  in  strife,  in  whom  her  affections  are  wrapped  up,  she  will 
fearlessly  throw  herself  between  them,  even  when  the  glittering 
dagger  gleams  in  her  gaze,  and  even  though  its  point  may  drink 
the  precious  blood  of  her  own  heart. 

Lelia  and  Lucy,  the  two  country  maidens,  I  have  alluded  to, 
watched  over  the  suffering  young  man,  until  he  was  perfectly  re- 
covered, and  never  was  there  a  more  grateful  man  than  Mr. 
Simpson.  With  many  thanks  he  gathered  the  rustic  family  around 
him,  and  blessed  them  for  the  kindness  that  they  had  bestowed, 
and  as  they  followed  him,  mounted  his  horse,  and  bade  adieu  to  a 
humble  place,  but  where  humble  hearts  had  cared  for  his  distress. 
Oh!  generous,  generous  woman! 

As  Mr.  Simpson  rode  along  the  lonely  way  through  the  forest, 
he  could  not  but  think  of  the  sweet  sympathies  of  woman,  even 
in  the  wilderness,  in  whose  solitudes  we  little  expect  to  find  those 
exhibitions  of  tenderness,  which  are  found  in  the  polished  circles 
of  city  life.  Their  kindness,  however,  was  the  more  sweet  to 
him,  because  it  was  unexpected,  and  his  heart  beat  with  the 
warmest  gratitude,  as  he  rode  along  the  devious  way.  Indeed  he 
could  not  forget  the  melting  and  melancholy  eye  of  the  little,  light, 
and  airy  Lucy,  who  had  flitted  around  him  like  some  sylph  of  the 
woods.  Though  rustic  and  uneducated,  he  beheld  in  her  charms, 
which  surpassed  those  of  the  city  belle.  And  what  most  touched 
the  soul  of  Mr.  Simpson  was,  that  just  ere  he  departed,  while 
standing  alone  in  the  passage  of  the  humble  dwelling,  the  sweet 
little  unsophistical  Lucy,  after  gazing  at  him  with  indescribable 
tenderness,  came  forward,  fondly  placing  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  with  that  voluptuous  impulse  of  soul  which  none  but 
woman  knows,  pressed  her  blooming  lips  to  his,  in  one  fond,  long 
and  last  embrace.  She  had  watched  over  him  in  his  suffering 
moments,  and  during  the  weary  watchings  of  the  night,  had 
learned  to  love  him.  Poor  girl,  she  had  only  learned  to  love  at 
the  moment  of  parting.  She  loved  him  with  all  her  soul,  and 
thoughtless  of  all  propriety,  she  clung  to  him  as  the  first  object 
on  which  her  heart's  riches  had  been  bestowed.  Ah!  how  severe 
must  it  have  been  to  that  young  girl's  heart,  to  see  the  only  object 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  249 

she  had  loved,  bidding  her  farewell  forever!  No  doubt  she  is  at 
this  moment  mourning  over  the  recollection  of  his  departure,  for 
the  whole  story  I  am  relating,  but  recently  transpired. 

Mr.  Simpson  met  with  but  few  incidents  worthy  of  notice,  ere 
he  arrived  at  the  beautiful  mansion  which  held  the  fair  and  fading 
Mary.  Oh!  who  can  imagine  the  feelings,  the  rrftitual  feelings, 
with  which  Mary  and  Mr.  Simpson  again  gazed  upon  each  other. 
When  Mr.  Simpson  entered  the  room,  and  he  entered  alone,  the 
fair,  though  fading  Mary,  was  lying  on  a  couch.  The  book  which 
she  had  been  reading,  had  fallen  from  her  hand;  her  unbound  hair 
was  scattered  over  her  beautiful  bosom,  that  was  white  as  snow, 
and  equally  as  pure;  she  was  gazing,  as  she  often  did,  upon  the 
sun,  as  he  veiled  his  glories  behind  the  distant  woodlands,  and 
gently  sunk  into  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  "Ah!"  she  would  say, 
when  thus  gazing  upon  the  setting  sun,  "  I  too,  will  soon  go  down 
in  peace  to  the  grave,  and  like  thee,  bright  sun,  I  shall  rise  again — 
I  shall  rise,  never  to  set  again." 

So  seraphic  did  she  appear  in  the  sight  of  Mr.  Simpson,  that, 
for  a  moment  he  stood  transfixed.  He  gazed  upon  her  as  some 
superior  being,  that  had  strayed  away  from  the  bowers  of  Paradise. 
Though  she  was  no  longer  the  blooming  and  beautiful  Mary  that 
he  had  known  in  the  days  of  her  hopes  and  happiness,  he  thought 
her  still  more  lovely,  if  possible,  thus  clad  in  the  weeds  of  woe. 
There  was  an  expression  on  her  countenance  which  he  could  not 
describe,  yet  that  expression  to  him  had  a  charm,  which  all  the 
roses  of  beauty  could  not  have  lent  to  her  lovely  cheek.  So  ab- 
sorbed in  thought  was  she,  that  she  saw  him  not,  and  he  stood 
gazing  upon  her  fixed  eye,  so  beautiful  in  its  gaze,  and  upon  her 
pale  cheek,  from  which  all  the  flowers  had  faded  but  the  lily. 

"Ah!"  he  exclaimed,  mentally,  "what  a  pity  that  so  sweet,  so 
lovely  a  girl,  should  be  sacrificed  without  the  shadow  of  a  cause — 
that  one  so  gentle,  so  faultless,  should  be  thus  made  the  victim  of 
unwonted  persecution."  While  he  was  thus  reflecting,  Mary 
recovered  from  her  reverie;  her  melting  and  melancholy  eye  met 
that  of  her  old  acquaintance. 

Mr.  Simpson  at  any  time  would  have  rushed  to  her  assistance, 
but  now,  when  he  knew  she  was  afflicted,  who  can  describe  the 
feelings  with  which  he  flew  to  grasp  her  sweet  little  hand  ?  As 
soon  as  Mary  turned  her  melancholy  gaze  towards  him,  he  ad- 
vanced and  took  her  hand. 

"  Oh !  Mary,"  said  he,  "  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  look  so  sad,"  and, 
as  he  spoke,  he  could  not  refrain  from  turning  away  and  shedding 
32 


250  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

a  tear  over  the  sorrowful  countenance  of  one  whom  he  had  known 
in  the  hey-day  of  her  bloom  and  beauty. 

"  Do  not  weep  for  me,  my  friend,"  she  cried,  "  I  fear  not  death, 
and  indeed,  I  long  for  the  quietude  of  the  grave,  where  no  evil 
report  can  harm  me  more." 

She  spoke  -these  words  with  such  a  touching  tone,  with  such  a 
pathos,  that  her  cousin  Julia  fell  upon  her  bosom,  and  burst  into 
tears.  Every  one  in  the  room  caught  the  infection,  and,  by  sym- 
pathy, in  a  little  while  all  were  weeping.  During  this  touching 
scene,  little  Kate,  a  girl  about  six  years  old,  clambered  up  on  the 
bed,  and  throwing  her  dear  little  arms  round  Mary's  neck,  said — 

"Don't  cry,  dear  cousin  Mary,  little  Kate  will  love  you,  if  no- 
body else  will;  don't  cry,  cousin  Mary,  little  Kate  will  love  you." 

This  act  of  the  sweet  little  creature  only  added  fuel  to  the  flame, 
and  a  burst  of  sorrow  was  heard" all  over  the  room.  The  dying 
Mary  clasped  the  affectionate  little  creature  to  her  bosom,  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  little  did  Kate  think  that  hjer  cousin 
Mary  would  never  kiss  her  again.  She  never  did;  though  circum- 
stances alone  prevented  it,  for  Mary  lived  some  days  afterwards. 

When  Mr.  Simpson  came  to  her  bedside,  the  only  regret  she 
expressed  was,  that  she  was  to  die  away  from  her  parents,  and 
away  from  Henry,  whom  she  loved  dearly,  and  that  he  would  think 
she  had  proved  recreant  to  her  vow,  or  had  treated  him  with  that 
coldness  which  is  foreign  to  the  nature  of  woman. 

"Oh!  my  friend,"  she  exclaimed,  "  when  I  am  dead  and  laid  in 
my  silent  grave,  and  you  return  to  that  once  happy  home,  wheie 
I  was  so  happy,  tell  poor  Henry,  who  has  loved  me  so  much,  that 
I  did  not  forget  him  in  the  hour  of  death.  Tell  him  that  I  loved 
him  to  the  last — that  the  last  prayer  that  lingered  on  my  lips  w:as 
breathed  for  him;  and  oh!  tell  him  that  the  poor  heart-broken 
Mary,  if  possible,  will  love  him  when  this  heart,"  and  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  her  heart,  "shall  have  ceased  to  beat  forever." 

That  night  the  unhappy  Mary  complained  of  pain  in  the  left 
breast,  in  the  region  of  the  heart,  and  the  next  day  her  cheek, 
which  had  hithejto  been  pale  as  death,  now  bloomed  with  the 
hectic  of  consumption.  Yes,  the  consuming  fire  had  lit  up  the 
cheek  vhich,  in  happier  days,  was  adorned  with  roses  of  beauty. 
Oh!  who  eould  look  upon  the  dear  girl,  thus  dying  with  a  broken 
heart,  and  not  weep  her  early^her  untimely  fall  ?. 

"  Dear  cousin  Julia,"  she  would  say,  as  she  fixed  her  fading  eye 
upon  her,  "I  can  never  weep  any  more.  Oh!  be  careful  that 
your  good  name  is  never  assailed  as  mine  has  wantonly  been,  for 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  251 

you  see  before  you  the  ruin  that  slander  has  made.  I  was  inno- 
cent. I  was  happy,  and  should  now  have  been  the  wife  of  my  dear 
Henry,  had  not  some  ungenerous  tongue  breathed  pollution  on 
my  good  name.  Oh !  Julia,  dear  cousin  Julia,  it  is  hard  to  die  so 
young,  and  to  die  under  a  charge  of  which  I  am  totally  innocent! 
But,  perhaps,  when  I  am  dead,  and  laid  in  my  gr^ve,  the  heart 
that  has  wronged  me  may  relent,  and  shed  as  bitter  tears  of  sorrow 
as  those  which  have  so  often  poured  down  my  poor,  pale,  fading 
cheek.  But,  dear  Julia,  I  can  never,  never  weep  any  more!  The 
tide  of  life  is  ebbing  fast,  and  this  heart,  which  has  at  last  broken, 
will  soon  cease  to  beat.  Oh!  Julia,  kiss  me  once  more,  ere  the 
shadows  of  death  have  hidden  you  from  my  eyes  forever!  I  feel 
that  I  am  dying,  and  I  am  happy  thus  to  die  in  the  conscious 
triumph  of  virtue. 

"  Would  to  God  that  he  who  inflicted  all  my  misery  could  now 
behold  all  the  ruin  he  has  made,  and  see  how  fearlessly  a  virtuous 
heart  can  die.  Oh!  Henry,  my  beloved,  my  betrothed,  my  heart 
bleeds  for  you — yes,  the  bleeding  heart  is  verified — she  was  right, 
the  funeral  procession  will  soon  follow."  The  unhappy  Mary, 
overcome  by  the  intensity  of  her  feelings,  stretched  her  fair  form 
upon  the  bed,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  while  all  in 
the  room  were  drowned  in  tears  of  heart-felt  sorrow,  remained 
for  some  time  in  perfect  silence. 

For  some  time  Mary  went  to  her  couch  and  reclined  for  a  while, 
occasionally  through  the  day,  but  the  hour  soon  came  when  she 
was  to  lie  down  and  rise  no  more;  so  rapidly  was  the  anguish  at 
her  heart  sapping  the  very  fountain  of  life.  Mr.  Simpson  found 
that  it  would  be  vain  for  him  to  attempt  to  convey  the  lovely  fading 
flower  to  her  native  garden,  though  anxious  hearts  were  beating 
to  see  her  restored  to  their  sight. 

Poor  unhappy  Mary,  the  gloomy  cloud  of  sorrow  had  so  long 
hung  over  her  that  she  had  ceased  to  smile.  Yet  even  now,  in 
her  dying  moments,  there  was  a  power  in  her  charms  which  was 
scarcely  surpassed  when  she  was  in  the  brilliant  bloom  of  her 
beauty.  Hectic  fever  gave  a  flush  to  her  cheek,  which  increased 
in  intensity  every  day,  and  there  was  an  unearthly  light  in  her 
charming  eye  that  seemed  to  pierce  the  beholder's  soul.  Mr. 
Simpson  gazed  upon  her  with  feelings  which  not  even  a  Tully's 
tongue  could  describe.  It  was  a  beautiful  morning  when  he 
entered  the  drawing-room,  and  beheld  Mary  sitting,  as  usual,  at 
the  window,  gazing  upon  the  rising  sun  and  the  autumnal  woods. 


252  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

"Ah!"  said  he,  as  he  took  her  sweet  little  hand,  "how  happy 
I  would  be  could  I  only  convey  you  to  those  friends  who  this  very 
hour,  no  doubt,  are  thinking  of  you,  and  longing  for  your  return." 

"  My  dear,  dear  friend,"  returned  the  dying  Mary,  "  I  feel  the 
evidence  here,"  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart  which  was 
beating  with  tumultuous  emotion,  "  that  I  shall  never  see  another 
sun  set." 

Mr.  Simpson  started  from  his  chair,  on  which  he  had  sunk  by 
the  side  of  Mary,  and  walked  the  floor  rapidly.  The  thought 
startled  him  that  death  should  be  so  loudly  knocking  at  a  heart,  in 
which  so  many  of  the  glorious  virtues  of  woman  were  enshrined. 

"Oh!"  thought  he,  "how  can  I  behold  so  lovely  a  creature  in 
the  grasp  of  death  ?  I  could  stand  before  my  fellow-man  with  an 
instrument  of  death  in  his  hand,  in  defence  of  the  unhappy  girl, 
but  I  have  not  the  fortitude  to  see  her  die." 

Thus  did  he  muse  to  himself,  and  at  one  moment  was  just  ready 
to  order  his  horse  and  depart.  But  he  did  not,  for  he  was  destined 
to  behold  the  beautiful  Mary  in  the  last-«xpiring  pangs  of  dissolv- 
ing nature. 

During  the  day,  Mary  grew  much  worse — her  hand  was  ever 
pressed  upon  her  heart,  and  she  declared  with  a  calm  countenance, 
that  what  had  been  said  of  broken  hearts  was  true ;  for  that  she 
was  as  conscious  of  the  pangs  she  felt  when  her  own  broke,  as 
she  had  ever  been  of  a  pain  in  the  head  or  breast.  Many  persons 
suppose  that  a  broken  heart  is  a  mere  poetical  fiction,  but  I  have 
been  assured  by  more  than  one,  that  if-is  a  reality,  literally  speaking. 

About  ten  of  the  clock,  poor  Mary  went  with  a  steady  step  to 
her  couch,  and  calmly  lying  down,  said  :to  all  who  were  gazing 
on  her  with  piteous  eyes,  "  Farewell,  dear  friends,  the  sufferings 
of  poor  persecuted  Mary  are  almost  over.  I  shall  never  rise  from 
this  couch  again,  and  the  next  -sun,  wben  he  sets,  will  gild  the 
grave  of  poor  heart-broken,  persecuted  Mary."  / 

At  these  words,  uttered  in  such  a  touching  tone,  every  one  in 
the  room  shed  tears.  Julia  sobbed  aloud,  and  the  dear  little  Kate, 
whose  heart  was  not  deficient  in  feeling,  ran  weeping  to  the  arms 
of  the  dying  Mary.  They  clung  in  one  long,  fond  embrace.  The 
physicians  perceived,  when  they  entered,  that  there  was  no  hope. 
When  the  gentle  Julia  pressed  them  to  tell  her  there  was  longer 
life  for  Mary,  they  shook  their  heads  with  that  ominous  meaning 
which  at  once  puts  an  end  to  all  fond  anticipations. 

From  hour  to  hour  Mary  declined,  till  the  energies  of  life's  last 
lingering  hold  were  nearly  dissolved.  She  stretched  herself  in 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD   BARD.  253 

her  loose  white  robe  upon  the  couch,  and  told  them  that  she 
would  never  rise  again.  Mr.  Simpson  was  so  affected  that  he 
could  not  speak  a  word,  and  he  sat  and  gazed  upon  her  with  in- 
expressible sorrow. 

"  Mr.  Simpson,"  said  Mary,  "  death  has  put  his  cold  hand  upon 
me,  and  as  I  feel  that  ere  many  hours  I  shall  sleep  in  his  embrace, 
I  will  tell  you  all  that  I  wish  you  to  convey  to  my  dear  parents 
and  friends.  Tell  them,  Mr.  Simpson,  that  I  am  innocent — Oh! 
yes,  assure  them  that,  with  my  dying  breath,  I  declared  my  inno- 
cence. You  know  not  my  feelings,  Mr.  Simpson,  and  no  doubt 
you  think  I  will  recover — but  no,  the  shaft  is  in  my  heart,  that 
has  made  a  wound  never  to  be  healed.  Oh!  tell  Henry,  poor 
Henry,  that  I  loved  him  in  death,  and  would  have  fulfilled  my  vow 
of  marriage,  had  not  the  breath  of  defamation  fallen  on  my  fair 
farqe.  I  c,ould  not,  no,  I  could  not  give  my  fading  form  to  his 
arms,  after  the  imputation  of  shame  had  fallen  upon  it.  But  tell 
him  that  Mary  .is  gone  to  the  grave  with  an  unstained  heart,  and 
htat  her  heart  beat  for  him-  to  the  last  moment  of  her  existence. 
Bear  to  my  parents  and  friends  the  assurance  that  the  heart-broken 
Mary  feared  not  death,  but  died  as  all  innocent  hearts  should  die, 
with  perfect  calmness. 

"Tell  those  who  have  struck  the  cruel  blow,  that  they  have 
murdered  poor  Mary — but  tell  them,  again  and  again,  that  with 
her  dying  breath  she  forgave  them — and  oh !  tell  them  that  she 
died  triumphant  in  virtue'."  *'-.  .  . 

As  she  uttered  these  weMls^she  iook  the  hand  of  Julia,  and  by 
her  assistance,  attempted  to  "embrace  her,  but  the  effort  was  in 
vain.  Putting  her  hand  upon  her  heart,-  as  she  had  so  often  done, 
she  said  in  a  mournful  tone-r-"  It  is  almost  over,  dear  Julia.  When 
yon  sun  shall  have  4et,  poor  heart-broken  Mary  will  be  pale  and 
lifeless  before  you.  And  Mr.  Simpson,  when  you  thus  look  upon 
me,  wrapped  in  the  white  shroad,  remember  what  the  heart- 
broken Mary  has  told  you,  thatf  she  never  erred:  that  her  virtue 
was  truly  triumphant  in  death.  Yes,  Mr.  Simpson,  give  a  dying 
girl  your  hand,  for  I  know  you  are  a  man  of  honor,  and  you  will 
feel  for  one  whose  bosom  has  ever  been  unstained." 

Mr.  Simpson  was  so  overcome  by  his  feelings  that  he  knew  not 
what  to  say.  Mary  kept  her  dying  eyes  steadfastly  fixed  upon 
him,  and  said — 

"I  cannot,  no,  I  cannot  say  all  that  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

Her  friends  hastily  gathered  around  her,  and  the  dying  girl,  now 
gasping  for  breath,  pressed  every  hand  as  it  was  presented  to  her, 


254  WRITERS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

and  said  in  an  almost  inaudible  voice,  "  Farewell  forever.  I  am 
not  afraid  of  death,  for  I  die  with  a  pure  and  virtuous  heart. 
Farewell,  dear,  absent  Henry,  forev — " 

Death  stopped  the  last  syllable  upon  her  tongue.  She  gently 
fell  back  into  the  arms  of  Julia,  and  on  her  bosom  died.  Thus 
perished  the  beautiful,  the  lovely  Mary  Mandeville — perished  in 
the  early  bloom  of  womanhood,  a  victim  to  the  slander  of  some 
merciless  tongue,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart.  Alas!  the  fortune- 
teller's story  had  proven  true,  and  the  funeral  procession  was  soon 
to  close  the  sad  prophecy.  Never,  perhaps,  did  human  tears  flow 
so  freely  as  when  the  sweet  girl,  the  broken  hearted  Mary,  was 
encased  in  her  coffin,  and  was  conveyed  to  the  silent  city  of  the 
dead.  Many  a  heart  melted  in  sympathy,  that  had  stood  by  the 
graves  of  others  unmoved;  for  when  they  heard  the  melancholy 
sound  of  the  clods  falling  upon  her  coffin,  the  most  desolate  and 
mournful  sound  that  ever  falls  upon  the  human  ear,  they  thought 
of  the  beautiful  being  there  deposited  forever.  They  thought 
of  her  former  gaiety  and  happiness — of  her  sweet  smile — her 
heaven-lighted  eye — of  her  blighted  peace — of  her  blasted  hopes — 
of  her  broken  heart — and  how  she  perished  in  the  bright  morning 
of  her  existence,  when  her  young  soul  was  full  of  love  and  hope, 
and  they  wept  over  the  grave  of  the  poor  unhappy  Mary.  But, 
sweet  girl,  she  sleeps  in  peace.  That  dazzling  eye,  which  could 
once  awaken  feeling  by  a  single  glance,  is  closed — those  lips, 
which  had  often  lighted  up  with  a  smile,  and  on  which  bloomed 
the  sweet  roses  of  youth,  and  from  which  fell  the  bewitching 
accents  of  love,  were  sealed  by  the  icy  finger  of  death — that  heart, 
that  gentle  little  innocent  heart  that  so  often  throbbed  with  the 
tenderest  emotions  of  our  nature,  had  ceased  to  pulsate  forever. 

Oh!  gentle  reader,  if  you  have  ever  stood  by  the  grave  of  de- 
parted beauty,  you  can  realize  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Simpson,  when 
he  heard  the  clods  falling  upon  the  coffin  of  poor,  dear,  sweet, 
innocent  Mary.  But  the  grave — the  grave  covers  all  human  woes, 
and  all  ambition.  The  sun  was  just  setting  when  the  grave  of  the 
unhappy  Mary  was  filled  up,  and  the  mourning  concourse  turned 
to  leave  the  hallowed  spot.  Ah!  how  sad  it  is  to  think  that  she, 
so  lovely,  and  so  well  calculated  to  adorn  society,  was  but  a  short 
time  ago  one  of  the  most  charming  of  her  sex!  Now,  where  is 
Mary.  Pale  in  death,  she  lies  in  the  grave,  and  the  setting  sun 
casts  his  last  rays  upon  the  lovely  spot  where  she  rests. 

Oh!  you  who  have  sighed,  or  shed  a  tear  over  the  sad  story  of 
Mary's  wrongs  and  ruin,  remember  that  a  single  word  of  defa- 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  255 

mation  may  make  a  wound  that  can  never  be  healed.  Remem- 
ber that  words  lightly  spoken  may  blast  reputation  and  cause 
a  he£ft  to  break  that  never  conceived  a  wrong.  May  my  readers 
remember  the  poor  heart-broken  Mary,  who  died  triumphant  in 
virtue,  and  hug  to  their  hearts  that  jewel  without  which  woman  is 
nothing. 

NOTE. — The  author  of  the  foul  slander  that  cost  a  young  and  lovely  woman 
her  life,  and  her  friends  the  happiness  of  her  society,  made  the  confession  upon 
his  death-bed,  and  died  in  all  the  horrors  of  remorse. 


llntibr. 


WHAT  is  Slander  ? 
'Tis  an  assassin  at  the  midnight  hour 
Urged  on  by  Envy,  that  with  footstep  soft, 
Steals  on  the  slumber  of  sweet  innocence, 
And  with  the  dark  drawn  dagger  of  the  mind, 
Drinks  deep  the  crimson  current  of  the  heart. 
It  is  a  worm  that  crawls  on  beauty's  cheek, 
Like  the  vile  viper  in  a  vale  of  flowers, 
And  riots  in  ambrosial  blossoms  there. 
It  is  a  coward  in  a  coat  of  mail, 
That  wages  war  against  the  brave  and  wise, 
And  like  the  long  lean  lizai'd  that  will  mar 
The  lion's  sleep,  it  wounds  the  nobjest  breast. 
Oft  have  I  seen  this  demon,  of  the  soul, 
This  murderer  of  sleep,  with'  visage  smooth, 
And  countenance  serene  as  heaven's  own  sky; 
But  storms  were  raving  in  the  world  of  thought: 
Oft  have  I  seen  a  smile  upon  its  brow; 
But  like  the  lightning  from  a  stormy  cloud, 
It  shocked  the  soul  and  disappeared  in  darkness. 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  weep  at  tales  of  woe, 
And  sigh  as  'twere  the  heart  would  break  with  anguish; 
But  like  the  drop  that  drips  from  Java's  tree, 
And  the  fell  blast  that  sweeps  Arabian  sands, 
It  withered  every  floweret  of  the  vale. 
I  saw  it  tread  upon  a  lily  fair, 
A  maid  of  whom  the  world  could  say  no  harm; 
And  when  she  sunk  beneath  the  mortal  wound, 
It  broke  into  the  sacred  sepulchre, 
And  dragged  its  victim  from  the  hallowed  grave 


256  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

For  public  eyes  to  gaze  on.     It  hath  wept, 
That  from  the  earth  its  victim  passed  away 
Ere  it  had  taken  vengeance  on  his  virtues. 
Yea,  I  have  seen  this  cursed  child  of  Envy 
Breathe  mildew  on  the  sacred  fame  of  him 
Who  once  had  been  his  country's  benefactor; 
And  on  the  sepulchre  of  his  repose, 
Bedewed  with  many  a  tributary  tear, 
Dance  in  the  moonlight  of  a  summer's  sky, 
With  savage  satisfaction. 


WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OP  A  VERY  INTELLIGENT  LADY  OF  BALTIMORE. 

I  SAW  the  gay  and  graceful  youth, 

At  beauty's  feet  in  homage  bow; 
And  lingering  on  his  lip,  in  truth, 

I  heard  him  breathe  affection's  vow. 
He  wooed  and  won  her  heart  and  hand, 

For  him  she  left  her  happy  home; 
Forsaking  friends  and  native  land, 

With  him  she  loved  afar  to  roam. 

•  •' .  •    • 

Oh !  if  there  is  one  pang,  one  dart, 

That  hath  in  it  all  woes  combined; 
One  dagger  thro'  the  human  heart, 

That  murders  the  exalted  mind, 
Tis  felt  by  woman  in  those  hours, 

When  she  beholds  her  hopes  decay; 
When  sweet  affection's  cherished  flowers, 

Are  thrown,  like  worthless  weeds,  away. 
•  .*  '•.  * 

The  fair  Ophelia  loved,  and  fain     ' 

Would  trust  his  violated  vow; 
Still  to  her  heart  would  hug  the  cnain, 

Ungrateful  man  hath  Wrofteh  now; 
She  little  thought  the  hand  she  pressed 

In  wedlock,  would  her  *orr#w  prove; 
Would  aim  an  arrow  at  her  breast, 

And  blast  her  brilliant  dream  of  love. 

The  man  who  bids  the  bosom  bleed, 

Which  he  had  vowed  his  bliss  should  share; 

Who  triumphs  in  the  dreadful  deed, 
And  dooms  a  fond  heart  to  despair; 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  257 

Is  a  vile  coward  who,  on  earth, 

Should  hug  the  hungry  tiger's  form; 
He  knows  not  aught  of  woman's  worth, 

His  breast  no  blissful  feelings  warm. 

He  should  be  doomed  to  wander  where 

Earth's  angel,  woman,  never  trod; 
And  be  in  caves  or  caverns  there, 

The  scoff  of  man  and  scorn  of  God; 
He  ne'er  should  gaze  on  eyes  of  bliss, 

As  beautiful  as  those  above; 
Should  taste  not  witching  woman's  kiss, 

Nor  hear  the  language  of  her  love. 

Far  in  a  foreign  land  she  sleeps, 

Far,  far  from  friends,  across  the  wave; 
No  kindred  eye  now  o'er  her  weeps, 

'Mid  strangers  she  hath  found  a  grave. 
Like  flowers  that  now  are  fading  there, 

And  fragrance  to  the  air  impart; 
She  pined  and  perished  in  despair, 

By  him  who  wooed  and  won  her  heart. 


mnrtj. 

Written  for  the  Album  of  Miss  E.  M.  of  East  Marlborough,  Chester  County,  Pa. 

WHEN  Memory,  with  a  magic  spell, 

H^r  mirror  bright  displays; 
..'  How  oft  we  seem,  again,  to  dwell, 

In  scenes  of  other  days ! 
The  spectres  of  the  past  arise, 

With  lojag  forgotten  hours; 
And,  fancy  feeds  her  eager  eyes, 

On  fair,  unfading  flowers. 

Again  in  childhood's  home  appears, 

Call'd  up  by  Memory, 
Companions  of  our  earlier  years, 

And  joys  of  infancy; 
Ev'n  at  our  side,  our  parents,  there, 

Once  more  we  gaze  upon; 
And  bow  the  knee,  to  hear  the  pray'r 

Of  those,  long  dead  and  gone. 
33 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BAHD. 

Beneath  the  shade  of  childhood's  tree, 

We  mingle  in  the  plays, 
And  feel  the  joys,  of  childish  glee, 

We  felt  in  other  days; 
We  ramble  thro'  the  wild-wood  shade, 

Or  butterflies  pursue; 
As  oft  we  roved,  rejoiced,  and  played, 

When  life  and  hope  were  new. 

And  oh !  when  Memory  works  her  spell, 

We  shed  the  tender  tear; 
When  bidding  to  some  friend  farewell, 

Or  bending  o'er  the  bier 
Of  some  dear  one,  as  once  we  did, 

In  years  long  passed  away; 
O'er  one,  the  grave  has  long  since  hid 

In  coldness  and  in  clay. 

Oh !  Memory !  what  charms  are  thine, 

Clairvoyant,  to  disclose 
The  happy  scenes  of  love  divine, 

And  courtship's  joys  and  woes! 
Within  thy  magic  mirror,  we 

Survey  the  dark-eyed  fair, 
Who,  in  our  youthful  years  of  glee, 

Our  hearts  and  hopes  did  share. 

But,  lady,  it  is  sad  to  break 

Fond  Memory's  magic  glass, 
And,  from  the  dream  of  youth,  to  wake 

To  age  and  woe,  alas ! 
But  time  will  pass,  and  when  thine  eye 

These  friendly  lines  shall  see; 
Let  Memory  dwell  on  days  gone  by, 

And  sometimes  think  of  me. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  259 


i  Battle  of  38ranfoqminr 


SEPTEMBER   11,   1777. 

To  sing  the  beauteous  morn  that  broke, 
When  valor  and  when  vengeance  woke, 
When  England's  Lion  rent  his  chains, 
And  thunder  shook  the  sanguine  plains; 
When  Freedom's  Eagle,  thro'  the  sky, 
Dashed  lightnings  from  her  lurid  eye; 
When  WASHINGTON,  the  son  of  war, 
Drove,  thro'  a  sea  of  blood,  his  car, 

The  glorious  task  be  mine. 
The  sun  arose,  in  lucid  light, 
High  o'er  the  boding  brow  of  night, 
The  light  blue  clouds  like  ringlets  rolled, 
The  sky  seemed  but  a  sea  of  gold, 
The  sunbeams  danced  upon  the  deep, 
Like  smiles  upon  an  infant's  sleep, 
And  orange  rays,  upon  the  peak, 
Like  blushes  o'er  a  maiden's  cheek; 
And  where  the  glittering  dew  appears, 
Like  beauty  smiling  thro'  her  tears, 
And  softened  sounds,  o'er  rocks  expire, 
Like  sighs  that  sweep  the  ^Eolian  lyre; 
But  ah  !  that  sun  his  light  did  throw, 
O'er  many  a  weeping  widow's  woe, 
And  those  soft  sounds  were  but  the  tale, 
Of  many  a  weltering  warrior's  wail, 

At  bloody  Brandywine. 
Hark !  hark !  the  trump  of  war  awakes, 
And  vengeance  from  her  vigil  breaks; 
The  dreadful  cry  of  carnage  sounds; 
It  seems  that  hell  lets  loose  her  hounds, 

To  crash  Columbia's  band. 
Pulaski  saw  the  signal  rise, 
He  heard  the  thunder  pierce  the  skies, 
And  snatched  his  sword  and  flashed  his  eyes, 

And  waved  his  daring  hand; 
His  war-horse,  headlong  down  the  hill, 
Like  lightning,  sought  the  sound  so  shrill; 
He  saw  the  dreadful  foe  advance, 
Two  streaming  standards  met  his  glance, — 
Two  columns  moved  with  awful  tread, 
That  seemed  the  armies  of  the  dead, 
Kynphausen  and  Cornwallis  led, 

Tow'rd  mighty  Maxwell's  line. 


260  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Pulaski  tilted  round  and  round, 

And  held  the  leaping  charger's  bound, 

To  view  once  more  that  groaning  ground, 

Of  beauteous  Brandywine. 
Loud  thunders  thro'  the  concave  rise, 
A  volley  rattles  round  the  skies, 
Louder,  still  louder,  round  and  round, 
And  peal  on  peal  the  rocks  resound; 
From  rank  to  rank,  resounds  the  clash, 
And  brilliant  blades  in  vengeance  flash; 
Brave  Maxwell  stands  the  stormy  strife, 
Nor  dreads  he  now  his  dauntless  life; 
Full  on  Knyphausen's  hostile  band, 
He  fell,  with  bayonet,  blade  and  brand, 
Again,  again,  the  foemen  fled — 
Again  they  sought  the  bloody  bed, 
The  banners  blazed,  the  battle  burned, 
To  right,  to  left,  the  victory  turned; 
Till  breathing  flames  of  bursting  fire, 
Brave  Maxwell  bade  his  men  retire, 

And  straightway  cross  the  stream. 
A  horseman  dashing  down  the  hill, 
Came,  like  the  wind  with  trumpet  shrill, 
And  bade  Pulaski 's  legion  wheel — 

Twas  like  a  fitful  dream. 
Fly  to  the  ford— 0  fly— 0  fly! 
Each  moment  did  the  horseman  cry; 
Great  Washington  there  waits  your  hand, 
To  try  -Knyphausen's  hostile  band; 
Fly !  fly,  and  wield  the  conquering  blade, 
Nor  let  Cornwallis  lend  him  aid; 
One  moment  lost,  a  hundred  years 
Can  ne'er  repay  or  bring  arrears. 
Pulaski  heard  the  dreadful  shock, 
His  war-horse  thundered  down  the  rock, 
And  at  his  side,  one  moment  seen, 
Were  all  the  ranks  of  gallant  Greene, 
And  o'er  the  distant  hill  afar, 
Brave  Sullivan  came  to  join  the  war, 
But  lo !  Cornwallis  had  retired, 
And  hope  in  every  heart  expired; 
Greene  was  recalled  to  feel  his  fate, 
And  Sullivan  doomed  in  doubt  to  wait, 

The  clarion  of  command. 
Pulaski  held  his  horse  that  strained, 
Like  tiger  tied,  or  lion  chained, 
But  quick  he  saw  and  soon  explained, 

The  fiery  blazing  brand. 
The  foe  had  passed,  prepared  for  fight, 
And  fallen  with  fury  on  the  right; 
Greene  saw  that  Sullivan's  fate  was  sealed, 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

His  cheek  was  pale — he  paused — he  wheeled 

And  bounding  down  the  bank  like  light, 

He  dashed  thro'  dust  to  join  the  fight; 

But  Sullivan's  soldiers  fled  the  plain, 

Nor  dared  to  face  that  foe  again: 

Stained  with  his  blood  he  waved  his  hand, 

And,  shouting,  begged  them  but  to  stand. 

Pulaski  reined  his  charger  round, 

Wheeled  to  the  right,  and  gained  his  ground; 

One  moment  stood  on   stirrups  high, 

To  view  the  van  and  hear  the  cry; 

The  wind  swept  round — the  clouds  of  smoke, 

Revealed  them,  and  in  distance  broke — 

Charge,  wheel  and  charge,  he  said  and  flew — 

A  field,  of  bayonets  faced  his  view; 

He  led  the  way,  his  dauntless  ranks, 

With  fire  and  steel,  cut  down  the  flanks, 

And  to  the  column's  centre  dashed, 

Where  bayonets  blazed  and  lances  flashed; 

And  on  he  rode,  thro'  walls  of  fire, 

That  closed  around  with  roaring  ire; 

Reeking  with  blood,  he  gasped  for  breath, 

And  wheeled  in  one  wide  blaze  of  death, 

And  dealt  his  blade,  amid  the  yell, 

Till  horseman  down  on  horseman  fell, 

The  foe  gave  way — they  fled  amain, 

But  concentrated  soon  again. 

Once  more!   Pulaski  cried,  once  more, 

And  dashed  headlong  amid  the  gore; 

Like  whirlwinds  quick  his  chargers  wheeled, 

And  many  a  hostile  horseman  reeled; 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  hero  rode, 

Till  his  bright  blade   was  drunk  with  blood, 

And  slaughter  sick  with  gore; 
The  sun  went  down,  veiled  in  a  cloud, 
Like  many  a  hero  in  his  shroud, 

That  slept  along  the  shore. 
Meanwhile  brave  Greene  approaching  near, 
Brought  up  with  wrath  the  raging  rear; 
One  rush  of  fire  the  hero  stood, 
Twas  followed  by  one  gush  of  blood, 
With  planted  blades  the  British  kneeled, 
No  more  they  rose — in  death  they  reeled; 
Pulaski 's  war-horse,  warrior  proof, 
Nailed  many  a  heart  with  his  high  hoof; 
Pulaski  plunged — a  warrior  wheeled, 
His  blade  struck  full — Pulaski  reeled: 
His  bearskin  flew,  and  quick  displayed, 
The  wound  the  warrior's  weapon  made. 
He  tilted  round — a  bolder  blow, 
In  slaughter  stretched  the  savage  foe; 


262  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

It  cleft  his  skull,  and  blood  and  brain 
Came  spouting  forth  upon  the  plain: 
Off  to  the  right  again  he  wheeled, 
And  saw  brave  Weedon  take  the  field; 
Virginia's  vengeance  was  displayed, 
With  many  a  flashing  flame  and  blade; 
Rank  sunk  on  rank,  in  death  to  writhe, 
Like  wheat  before  the  cradler's  scythe; 
And  Pennsylvania's  patriot  band, 
That  never  knew  a  coward's  hand, 
Supported  Weedon 's  daring  ire, 
That  seemed  but  one  exhaustless  fire; 
.*.  By  La  Fayette  the  band  was  led, 

4%- '»  In  freedom's  cause  the  hero  bled, 

His  arm  was  wounded,  and  behind, 
His  scarf  was  streaming  in  the  wind: 
f  But  still  he  waved  his  bleeding  hand, 

And  urged  to  death  the  dauntless  band, 
-  $  And  on  they  rushed,  with  raving  ire, 

Through  the  red  sea  of  flaming  fire; 
It  seemed  to  him  that  saw  the  sight, 
As  heaven  and  earth  had  met  in  fight, 
Hot  lava  streamed  across  the  vale, 
Like  shooting  star  or  comet's  tail, 
On  every  wind  was  heard  the  wail, 

Of  pain  and  agony; 
Ascending  ghosts  arose  on  high, 
Like  snow-white  birds  that  seek  the  sky, 
And  hovered  o'er  to  hear  the  cry, 

And  shout  of  victory.  •  - «/ •:-. ! 

^  ,     Retreat!   retreat!  the  clarion  cried, 
Retreat,  great  Washington  replied; 
One  fault  has  turned  the  fate  of  war, 
But  valor  has  not  left  her  car; 
The  knell  of  vengeance  yet  shall  toll, 
Along  these  hills  the  sound  shall  roll, 
And  golden  harps,  with  heavenly  lay, 
Shall  sing  the  valor  of  this  day, 

While  Freedom's  flag  shall  wave. 
With  Vandyke,  Clayton  and  M'Lane, 
And  Bayard,  statesmen  of  acclaim, 
Shall  live,  0  Delaware,  the  fame 

Of  all  thy  warriors  brave. 


e  Criranpjp  of 


T  is  with  peculiar  pleasure  that  I  take  up  the< 
[pen,  just  relinquished,  to  add  another  trophy  fo* 
the  modern  march  of  mind — to  add  another  tri- 
•bute  to  the  triumphs  of  learning  and  liberty. 
>The  heart  of  the  philanthropist  leaps  with  plea- 
'sure  at  the  prospect,  that  religion,  hand  in  hand 
with  learning,  is  about  to  illuminate  the  minds 
of  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  children, 
scattered  in  the  vales  and  villages  of  the  great 
valley  of  the  Mississippi.  Most  glorious  under- 
taking! The  cynic  may  smile  at  the  idea,  and 
the  infidel  laugh  to  scorn  the  noble  intention ; 
but  there  is,  perhaps,  many  a  germ  of  genius  in 
that  valley,  destined,  by  the  aid  of  a  Sunday 
school,  to  rise  to  the  pinnacle  of  human  glory. 
Go  search  the  records  of  renown.  It  ie  not  to 
colleges  we  are  to  look  alone  for  great  and  good  me*h.  The 
Saviour  of  mankind  chose  his  disciples  from  the  fishing  boat; 
and  many  of  the  most  illustrious  characters  that  ever  illuminated 
the  world,  rose  by  the  aid  of  the  bright  and  brilliant  agency 
we  are  contemplating.  Dr.  Herschel,  who,  with  the  eye  of  a 
philosopher,  searched  out  and  added  another  world  to  the  solar 
system,  was  a  fifer  boy  in  the  army;  Ferguson,  the  very  son  of 
science,  was  a  poor  weaver,  and  learned  to  read  by  hearing  his 
father  teach  an  elder  brother.  Search  the  record  of  our  revolu- 
tion, and  the  names  of  Sherman,  of  Franklin,  and  many  others, 
may  be  adduced  as  evidences  of  the  truth  of  the  position. 

Upon  the  culture  of  the  intellect  depends  the  glory  of  nations 
and  the  stability  of  empires.  When  Homer  sung  and  Hesiod 
wrote,  Greece  was  ascending  that  pinnacle  from  whence  the  flood 
of  her  glory  gushed  and  still  gleams  upon  the  minds  of  men. 
When  Seneca  laid  down  the  grand  principle  of  morality,  and 


264  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Cicero  shook  the  forum  with  the  thunders  of  his  eloquence,  then 
Rome,  the  city  of  the  Caesars,  flourished,  and  Virgil  sung  her  the 
glory  of  the  globe.  But  when  the  red  sons  of  rapine  rushed  from 
the  hills,  when  the  Goths  and  vile  Vandals  beat  like  a  cataract  at 
the  gates  of  Italy,  she  fell  like  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes,  and  be- 
came the  "Niobe  of  nations,"  recognized  alone  in  the  renown  of 
her  relics,  and  the  grandeur  of  her  ruins.  The  destiny,  as  well  as 
durability,  of  a  nation  depends  upon  the  culture  of  the  mind. 
Rome  held,  even  in  the  dark  ages,  and  still  holds,  a  respectable 
standing  among  the  nations  for  her  science;  but  Greece,  unhappy 
Greece,  the  very  last  gleam  of  her  glory  was  extinguished  in  the 
blaze  of  Byzantium.  The  last  star  of  her  learning  that  had  en- 
lightened the  world,  went  down  in  the  long  night  of  barbarism, 
and  the  last  remnant  of  her  renown  was  annihilated  in  the  ravages 
of  the  unrelenting  and  merciless  Moslem.  The  tyrant  Turk  left 
her  nothing  by  which  she  might  recognize  her  former  greatness 
and  triumphs,  but  the  tombs  of  her  saints  and  sages,  and  the  page 
of  her  imperishable  fame.  But  the  luminary  of  liberty  hath  again 
risen  on  her  shores,  and  the  light  of  learning  and  religion  again 
gladdens  her  bosom — she  may  shine  again  among  the  noblest  of 
nations. 

That  knowledge  is  power,  may  be  read  in  every  page  of  history, 
and  every  achievement  of  man.  The  rise  and  ruin  of  empires, 
the  flourishing  and  fall  of  rulers,  are  pregnant  with  the  truth  of 
this  aphorism.  We  are  informed  that  the  single  arm  of  Archi- 
medes was  enabled  by  his  knowledge  to  defend  Syracuse  against 
the  legions  of  Rome,  and  to  defy  the  wrath  of  the  world.  To  him 
alone  the  launch  of  a  ship  was  but  pastime,  and  for  his  amusement 
he  set  fire  to  whole  navies.  The  press,  that  mighty  engine  of  in- 
telligence, and  the  compass,  the  polar  star  of  commerce  and  curi- 
osity, are  the  offsprings  of  human  knowledge  and  invention.  By 
the  aid  of  steam  we  are  enabled  to  resist  the  elements,  and  mat- 
ter, even  on  the  land,  is  transported  over  space  with  the  velocity 
of  mind.  Printing,  the  great  pioneer  of  knowledge,  has  dissemi- 
nated intelligence  in  a  tenfold  ratio.  All  the  glory  of  ancient 
times,  all  the  oracles  of  Athens,  of  Ephesus,  and  the  world,  may 
not  be  compared  to  this  in  the  greatness  of  its  design  and  the 
brilliance  of  its  benefits. 

Nor  less  is  the  power  of  knowledge  in  other  respects.  Why 
does  gigantic  Russia,  the  terror  of  the  Turks,  tremble  at  the  armies 
of  England?  Why,  when  the  cloud  of  battle  shrouds  the  heavens 
and  darkens  the  orb  of  day,  does  the  savage  fly  from  the  sons  of 


WRITINGS    OP  THE    MILFORD    BARD.  265 

civilization  ?  Ay,  why  did  the  Tartar  hordes  and  Arab  armies  of 
Africa  sink  beneath  the  valor  of  the  fair-cheeked  children  of 
France?  And  why  did  the  sun-burnt  Gothics  of  the  Ganges  yield 
when  the  British  battle-cry  was  heard  on  the  banks  of  the  golden 
river?  On  the  contrary,  why  was  the  Russian  successful  in  tri- 
umphing over  the  Turk,  and  planting  his  standard  on  the  walla  of 
Adrianople,  when  a  thousand  sabres  started  and  streamed  with 
the  blood  of  the  bravest  heroes?  It  was  the  result  of  the  superi- 
ority of  mind  over  matter;  of  intelligence  over  ignorance  and  bar- 
barity. This  same  superiority  of  mind  enabled  one  man  to  rule 
Sparta,  and  lay  down  a  code  of  laws  for  her  future  government. 
That  illustrious  man  was  Lycurgus,  the  best  benefactor  of  his 
country. 

In  the  middle  ages,  when  printing  was  undiscovered,  and  books 
scarce,  and  of  inappreciable  value ;  when  learning  was  preserved 
in  the  convent,  the  closet,  and  the  castle;  when  man  was  the  ab- 
solute master  of  his  fellow-man,  and  the  chains  of  tyranny  rattled 
on  the  arms  of  the  slave,  the  light  and  power  of  knowledge  were 
made  more  evident  by  the  great  circle  of  darkness  which  sur- 
rounded them.  In  those  days  of  romance,  the  infant  was  cradled 
amid  the  clash  of  arms  and  the  tumult  of  battle:  to  him  valor  was 
virtue,  and  a  knowledge  of  war  was  wisdom.  Then  came  the  Cru- 
sades, and  glory  consisted  in  grappling  with  the  Mahommedan  for 
the  sepulchre  of  the  Saviour.  Then  the  aspiring  youth  knew  no 
piety  but  patriotism,  no  science  but  arms,  and  his  education  taught 
him  that  to  conquer  on  the  field  of  fight  was  the  very  essence  of 
philosophy.  About  this  era  arose  the  orders  of  knighthood,  among 
which  the  Knights  Templar  were  distinguished.  Learning  became 
hereditary  among  them,  and  never  was  the  might  of  mind  more 
terribly  triumphant.  The  great  Charles  of  Germany  was  their  pa- 
tron, and,  headed  by  the  venerable  Valette,  they  shook  the  throne 
of  the  incensed  Solyman,  and  bade  defiance  to  the  tyrants  of 
Turkey.  For  six  or  seven  hundred  years  they  struck  terror  to  the 
infidels,  and  hung  out  their  banner  in  the  cause  of  Christianity. 
During  that  long  period  of  despotism  and  decay,  they  were  the  aegis 
of  Europe,  and  a  shield  to  the  Christian  world,  against  which  the 
spear  of  oppression  rattled  in  vain.  In  the  eleventh  century, 
when  the  cloud  of  war  darkened  the  East,  and  a  volcano  broke 
from  the  mountains  of  Imaus;  when  the  Saracen  crescent  was 
waved  by  Saladin  on  the  walls  of  the  holy  city ;  then  was  seen  a 
tempest  even  more  terrible  rolling  up  from  the  West.  Then  the 
dark  Iberian,  the  gay  Gaul,  and  the  gentle  German,  were  seen  bat» 
34 


266  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

tling  amid  the  burning  sands  of  Syria;  and  then  the  Albanian  and 
the  Arab  unsheathed  their  glittering  swords  for  the  glorious  com- 
bat. Then,  too,  did  the  victorious  sword  of  the  Templar  gleam 
and  glitter  in  the  sunbeam,  and  mighty  was  its  blow.  Jerusalem 
may  bear  witness.  Aye,  go  and  meditate  amid  her  melancholy 
ruins;  go  survey  the  tall  temples  of  Askelon  laid  low  in  the  dust, 
and  muse  amid  the  scenes  of  Samaria,  celebrated  in  the  annals  of 
that  proud  and  imperious  age.  The  sublimity  of  those  solitudes 
only  exist  now  in  the  ruins  of  their  former  renown,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  departed  grandeur.  The  flowery  fields  and  pavilions  of 
Palestine,  where  mirth  and  music  once  resounded,  war  hath  deso- 
lated ;  and  Calvary,  the  covert  of  the  lamb,  hath  become  the  lair 
of  the  lion. 

Nor  is  learning  more  powerful  and  beneficial  to  the  state  than 
pure  religion,  and  her  handmaid,  morality.  But,  in  the  language 
of  the  eloquent  Phillips,  "I  would  have  her  pure,  unpensioned, 
unstipendiary;  I  would  have  her,  in  a  word,  like  the  bow  of  the 
firmament:  her  summit  should  be  the  sky;  her  boundaries  the 
horizon;  but  the  only  color  that  adorned  her  should  be  caught 
from  the  tear  of  earth,  as  it  exhaled,  and  glowed,  and  glittered  in 
the  sunbeams  of  the  heavens."  Yes,  and  I  would  have  her  bright 
as  the  crystal  current  from  the  rock,  and  sincere  as  the  smile  of 
infant  innocence  when  it  slumbers  on  the  bosom  that  bore  it.  I 
would  have  it  great,  but  not  gloomy;  magnificent,  but  not  merce- 
nary; and  powerful,  but  not  ambitious. 

It  is  not  pure  religion — that  blissful  harbinger  of  hope  and  dove 
of  heaven,  that  aims  at  dominion,  and  to  unite  the  congress  to 
the  conference,  and  the  crosier  to  the  crown.  No!  it  is  political 
hypocrisy  that  hath  no  hope;  it  is  restless,  ruthless  bigotry  that 
knows  no  blush.  Pure  religion  never  sanctioned  the  murdering 
of  the  martyrs,  or  introduced  the  fagot  and  the  fire.  No!  she 
never  sighed  for  a  union  of  the  church  and  state. 

But  it  is  strange  that  the  effort  to  educate  the  children  of  the 
West  should  beget  fears  for  the  safety  of  the  state.  As  well  might 
we  assert  that  to  sever  the  chains  of  a  slave  would  excite  venge- 
ance in  his  soul,  and  enlist  him  an  enemy  against  his  liberator. 
Does  learning  shed  no  light  on  the  human  intellect?  Does  glad- 
ness in  the  benefited  beget  no  gratitude  to  the  benefactor?  To 
decide  to  the  contrary,  is  inconsistent  with  reason.  Enlighten 
the  minds  of  those  children,  and  they  will  see  the  dangers  they 
are  to  avoid ;  they  will  be  so  many  bulwarks  to  the  state  in  the 
day  of  darkness  and  danger. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  267 

But  who  are  the  men  who  advocate  the  measures  of  the  Sunday 
School  Union,  which  proposes  to  send  light  into  the  wilderness 
of  the  West?  Who  are  those  who  are  in  favor  of  cherishing  the 
germs  of  genius  now  scattered  over  the  prairies  of  the  great  valley 
of  the  Mississippi?  They  are  some  of  the  most  illustrious  states- 
men and  heroes  our  state  or  republic  has  produced;  some  of  the 
most  eloquent  and  eminent  divines  enrolled  in  the  cause  of  Chris- 
tianity. They  are  men  of  various  sects  and  societies,  men  whose 
only  ambition  is  to  fix  the  permanency  of  our  institutions  on  the 
firm  foundation  of  education  and  liberty.  They  are  men  of  piety 
and  patriotism;  they  are  philosophers  and  philanthropists.  They 
are  men  who  look  with  delight  upon  the  temple  of  our  devotion 
as  it  kisses  the  clouds  and  dips  its  head  in  heaven;  but  they  will 
never  agree  that  the  flag  of  our  freedom  shall  move  upon  its  walls. 
The  cause  of  education  is  the  cause  of  Christianity  and  of  our 
country.  The  present  measure  is  advocated  by  the  great  and  the 
good,  by  the  wise  and  the  wealthy.  Aye,  a  voice  from  the  tombs 
of  Oriental  saints  and  sages,  a  voice  from  the  gory  graves  of  the 
revolution,  a  voice  from  the  sepulchres  of  the  heroes  of  our 
country,  and  a  voice  from  the  vault  of  Vernon,  come  stealing  on 
the  Sabbath  silence,  approbating  the  grand  and  glorious  enterprise. 
The  very  simplicity  of  the  undertaking  makes  it  sublime.  How 
cheering  the  idea,  that  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  children 
shall  be  made  moral,  be  taught  to  read  the  most  beautiful  of  books, 
and  discharged  with  a  Testament  for  the  paltry  sum  of  what,  as  an 
eminent  gentleman  very  justly  observed,  we  should  pay  for  a  pin, 
a  feather,  or  a  flower!  The  retrenchment  of  a  single  ribband,  the 
sacrifice  of  a  single  ticket  to  the  theatre  or  ball-room,  might  raise 
up  and  give  the  impulse  in  the  West  to  another  Washington  in 
war,  or  another  Wirt  in  eloquence;  to  another  Jefferson  in  the 
presidential  chair,  or  to  another  Jay  in  the  councils  of  his  country. 
There  is  talent  among  the  children  of  those  pioneers  who  subdued 
the  wild  wilderness,  and  peopled  those  sublime  solitudes  of  the 
West,  where  no  human  foot  had  trod  and  no  eye  penetrated,  save 
those  of  the  unhappy  children  of  the  forest,  the  aborigines  of  the 
country.  Man  is  naturally  a  religious  creature.  Had  the  light  of 
the  Gospel  never  illuminated  his  mind,  and  the  knowledge  of  his 
own  destiny  and  dignity  hereafter  never  dawned  upon  his  under- 
standing, still  reason  would  have  taught  him  a  belief  in  the  exist- 
ence of  a  superior  Being.  He  would  have  admired  his  wisdom  in 
every  leaf  and  every  flower  that  adorns  the  earth;  like  the  Hindoo, 
he  would  have  seen  him  in  the  setting  sun,  and  like  our  own 


268  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Indians,  he  would  have  worshipped  the  Great  Spirit,  as  he  passed 
in  his  chariot  on  the  storm  of  night.  But,  happily  for  us,  the 
Gospel  has  gone  forth  with  glad  tidings.  The  story  of  the  Saviour's 
sufferings  and  sorrows,  of  his  crucifixion  on  Calvary,  was  one  of 
the  first  lessons  imprinted  upon  our  minds  in  the  hours  of  infancy. 
As  first  impressions  last  through  life,  it  is  our  duty  to  extend  and 
imprint  this  necessary  knowledge  on  the  minds  of  the  rising  gen- 
eration. The  Gospel  has  been  sent  to  the  heathen  children  of 
Hindostan  and  Japan;  to  the  Arab  and  the  South  Sea  islander; 
and  the  time  is  rapidly  arriving  when  the  ^Ethiop  and  the  Arab 
will  own  the  same  faith  with  the  Englishman  and  American;  when 
the  Hottentot  and  Tartar  will  extend  the  hand  of  good  fellowship 
to  the  Protestant  and  the  Catholic.  But  in  those  glorious  triumphs 
abroad,  the  darkness  which  enshrouds  the  intellect  of  our  own 
country  should  not  be  forgotten.  Infidelity  is  abroad,  and  the 
novelty  of  her  tenets,  and  the  force  of  her  blandishments,  are 
bowing  the  minds  of  men.  She  hath  erected  her  altar,  and  she 
hath  her  oracles,  her  priests  and  her  divinities.  The  doctrines  of 
Plato  and  Pythagoras  have  burst  from  the  billow  of  oblivion  which 
had  buried  them  beneath  the  rubbish  of  three  thousand  years,  and 
are  again  taught  by  the  Pagan  priest  of  modern  times. 

But  nay,  there  are  those  who  are  up  and  doing.  There  are 
those  whose  lives  have  been  almost  spent  in  disseminating  the 
light  of  religion  and  learning  to  the  sons  of  darkness.  Most  high 
shall  be  their  reward  in  heaven.  The  pride  of  ancestry,  as  an 
incentive  to  emulation,  may  be  just;  to  read  over  a  long  list  of 
illustrious  predecessors  may  be  laudable;  but  when  man  looks 
back  to  a  long  existence  devoted  to  the  glory  of  God  and  the 
benefit  of  his  country,  then  it  is  that  life  becomes  truly  illustrious, 
and  the  grave  glorious.  Such  are  some  of  those  who  advocate 
the  measure  which  I  have  endeavored  to  delineate.  Such  are 
those  who  would  enlighten  the  intellect  and  moralize  the  mind  of 
one  of  the  fairest  and  most  flourishing  sections  of  our  country. 
When  the  foam  of  the  last  wave  of  time  shall  whiten  their  heads, 
and  the  blast  of  the  last  trump  shall  echo  in  their  ears,  the  recol- 
lection of  the  past  shall  light  up  the  gloom  of  the  grave,  and 
soothe  and  soften  the  pangs  of  dissolution.  And  when  they  shall 
have  long  slumbered  in  the  city  of  the  silent;  when  every  trace  of 
the  unhappy  Indian  shall  have  been  buried  in  oblivion;  when 
other  cities  shall  rise  in  the  great  valley  of  the  Mississippi,  and 
this  republic  shall  rival  and  surpass  the  ancient  glories  of  Greece 
and  Rome;  then  shall  the  memory  of  their  labors  still  live,  and 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  269 

their  monuments  be  inscribed  with  characters  of  imperishable  fame. 
Ages  hence,  when  some  youth  shall  point  to  a  modern  Athens,  to 
another  Rome  on  the  rivers  of  the  West,  and  ask  of  what  manner 
of  people  the  fallen  race  of  the  forest  were,  and  concerning  those 
who  enlightened  the  minds  that  achieved  the  glorious  foundations 
of  greatness;  then  will  some  venerable  sire,  some  Plato,  Cicero, 
or  Seneca,  point  with  pride  to  the  catalogue  of  renowned  names, 
names  of  those  now  living  who  disseminated  the  Gospel  and  the 
light  of  learning  in  the  West. 

Mind  constitutes  the  majesty  of  man;  virtue  his  true  nobility. 
The  tide  of  improvement,  which  is  now  flowing,  like  another  Ni- 
agara, through  the  land,  is  destined  to  roll  on  downward  to  the 
latest  posterity;  and  it  will  bear  to  them  on  its  bosom  our  virtues, 
our  vices,  our  glory  or  our  shame,  or  whatever  else  we  may  trans- 
mit as  an  inheritance.  It,  then,  in  a  great  measure  depends  upon 
the  present,  whether  the  moth  of  immorality  and  the  vampyre  of 
luxury  shall  prove  the  overthrow  of  the  republic;  or  knowledge 
and  virtue,  like  pillars,  shall  support  her  against  the  whirlwinds  of 
war,  ambition,  corruption,  and  the  remorseless  tooth  of  time.  Let 
no  frown  fall  upon  the  hopes  of  the  philanthropist  in  the  cause  of 
the  Sunday  school.  If  its  power  individually  is  humble,  so  is  the 
labor  of  the  silkworm;  but  the  united  product  is  immense;  it  be- 
comes the  wealth  of  a  whole  empire.  We  despise  the  single  in- 
sect crushed  wantonly  in  our  path;  but  united,  they  have  depopu- 
lated cities,  destroyed  fertile  fields,  and  struck  terror  to  nations, 
becoming  more  formidable  than  Csesar  or  Scipio,  than  Hannibal 
or  Alexander.  The  united  effort  of  Sunday  schools  may  carry 
intelligence  and  virtue  to  millions  of  minds;  nor  does  the  accu- 
mulation of  influence  cease  with  their  labors,  for  millions  yet  un- 
born may  reap  the  tenfold  harvest.  Active  education  is  ever  on 
the  increase;  like  money,  its  interest  becomes  compound,  dou- 
bles, and  in  the  course  of  years  becomes  a  vast  national  treasury. 
Give  your  children  fortunes  without  education,  and  at  least  half 
the  number  will  go  down  to  the  tomb  of  oblivion,  perhaps  to  ruin. 
Give  them  education,  and  they  will  accumulate  fortunes;  they  will 
be  a  fortune  themselves  to  their  country.  It  is  an  inheritance 
worth  more  than  gold,  for  it  buys  true  honor;  they  can  neither 
spend  nor  lose  it;  and  through  life  it  proves  a  friend,  in  death  a 
delicious  consolation.  Give  your  children  education,  and  no  ty- 
rant will  triumph  over  your  liberties.  Give  your  children  educa- 
tion, and  the  silver-shod  horse  of  the  despot  will  never  trample 
on  the  ruins  of  the  fabric  of  your  freedom. 


270  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 


anfr 


LOVE  and  Reason  one  day  to  escape  from  a  shower, 

Crept  under  a  rose  that  bloom  'd  in  the  glade; 
Firm  friends  they  had  been  from  life's  earliest  hour, 
And  were  partners  in  all  the  sweet  conquests  they  made; 
Lots   of  hearts, 
Pierced  with  darts, 
They  had  gained   in   their  cause; 

But  reason  was  stupid, 
And  little  Dan  Cupid, 
He  didn't  believe  was  dead,  shot  as  he  was. 

Reason  thought  he  could  make  Love  an  arrow  much  brighter, 

And  beautiful,  too,  that  would  reach  ev'ry  heart; 
Twas  of  gold,  but  Dan  Cupid's  own  arrow  was  lighter, 
And,  feather'd,  he  aim'cl  it  with  much  greater  art: 
But  in  vain 
Did  Love  deign 
To  contend  for  his  dart; 

For  Reason   was  bitter, 
He  said  that  the  glitter 
Of  the  gold  one,  would  blind,  while  'twas  bound  to  the  heart. 

Dan  Cupid,  to  please  his  old  friend,  used  the  arrow, 

And  shot  a  young  girl  in  an  old  man's  embrace; 
He  found  that  it  went  thro'  the  bone  to  the  marrow, 
But  seldom  or  never  went  to  the  right  place; 
And  each  wound, 
Too,  he  found, 
Left  a  very  bad  sore; 

Causing  grief  and  contention, 
Aching  hearts,  not  to  mention 
Broomsticks,  broken  heads,  and  divorces  a  score. 

Love's  own  arrow  always  the  right  person  wounded, 

And  went  to  the  heart,  waking  peace,  hope  and  joy; 
While  the  gold  one  of  Reason  too  often  rebounded, 
And  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  boy; 
And  the  heart 
That  his   dart 
Wounded,  mortified  too; 

Tho'  the  splendor  of  riches, 
That  often   bewitches, 
Attended  it,  wretchedness  kept  in  its  view. 

Love  and  Reason  beheld  two  fair  sylphs  from  the  city, 
The  one  was  quite  rich,  and  the  other  was  poor; 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  271 

One  was  weak  as  the  other  was  wise  and  was  witty, 
And  they  quarrelled  which  way  Love  should  shoot,  as  before; 
"Well  divide," 
Reason   cried, 
"  Shoot  the  rich  with  my  dart;" 

But  Love,  with  his  EYES  on, 

Shot  the  beautiful  wise  one, 

And  his  arrow  went  straight  to  her  love-stricken  heart. 

Love  then  said  to  Reason,  "  we  part  and  forever, 

You  take  the  DOLLARS,  and  I'll  take  the  SENSE;" 
And  since  thus  they  parted;  they  never,  no  never 
Have  agreed,  or  beep  friends  under  any  pretence. 
If  Reason, 
In  season, 
With  Beauty  should  stray; 

Love  soon  takes  the  warning, 
And  bright  as  the  morning, 
Spreads  his  wings  to,  the  wind  and  flies  gaily  away. 


I  WATCHED  a  bubble  broad  and  bright, 

That  on  the  streamlet  played, 
And  a  gay  world  of  life  and  light, 
In  painted  pictures  met  my  sight, 
Around  its  disk  arrayed. 

Green  vales  and  valleys  caught  my  view, 

And  fertile  fields  of  flowers; 
The  sky  was  paved  with  azure-blue, 
And  blooming  blossoms  dipt  in  dew, 

Hung  o'er  the  beauteous  bowers. 

And  fancy's  fairest  forms  were  there, 

Of  blushing  beauty  bright; 
They  seemed  to  wander  free  from  care, 
Upon  this  little  world  of  air, 

Nor  feared  nor  clouds  nor  night. 

But  all !   the  quick  returning  tide 
Swept  o'er  the  watery  world; 

And  all  its  gay  and  gilded  pride, 

Sunk,  as  I  hastily  espied 
The  wave  that  o'er  it  curled. 


272  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

And  thus  does  hope,  man's  fondest  prayer, 

Beam  on  his  beating  breast; 
Tt  pictures   scenes  of  pleasure  fair, 
Then  comes  the  wave  of  dark  despair, 
*And  as  it  sweeps  his  bosom  bare. 
•  "yhe  bubble  rolls  to  rest. 


O  THERE  are  tears  by  beauty  shed, 

Dpon  the  lonely  grave; 
Thfeff  fall  for  friends  and  kindred  dead  , 

Anil  for  the  worthy  brave: 

•  On  sorrow's  breast  they  melt  in  care, 
The  fell  musicians  of  despair. 

O  there  are  tears  that  brightly  flow, 

When  parted  friends  embrace; 
They  bid  the  beating  bosem  glow, 
Remembrance  to  retrace: 

And  they  are  called  the  gems  of  joy, 
Pure  and  unmixed,  without  alloy. 


0  there  are  tears  of  wrath  and. 
That  gush  in  boiling  streams; 
They  nerve  the  arm  of  vengeance  strong, 
And  haunt  the  maniac's  dream: 

They  are  tht  streams  of  rage  sft&f'  cSre, 
Sacred  to  anger  and  despair. 

. 
0  there  are  tears  in  love's   young  eye, 

Bright  '9&(W  dews  of  morn; 
And  there  are  tears  that  none  may  dry  — 
They  chill  the  heart  forlorn; 

Where  disappointments  coldly  fall, 
They  oft  bedew  the  sable  pall. 

And  there  are  tears  that  burst  the  goal, 

Of  nature's  feeble  eye; 
They  purify  the  sinful  soul, 
To  take  its  flight  on  high; 
And  they  are  tears  of  innocence, 
That  spring  from  humble  penitence. 


THE  QUAKER  MERCHANT, 


O  R 


tmaw 


HAT,  in  the  name  of  sense,  has  come  over  you  ?" 
said  Mr.  Rivingston,  one  morning,  to  his  friend 
Freelingham,  "  what  has  possessed  you  to  take 
into  your  house,  that  young  graceless  fellow, 
Grandison?" 

"What  is  thy  objection. to  doing  a  good  ac- 
tion?" asked  the  generous-hearted  Quaker  mer- 
chant of  Wilmington. 

"A  good  action  indeed!"  exclaimed  Rivings- 
ton with  a  sneer.  "  But,  to  be  serious,  my  ob- 
jections are  many.  I  am  astonished  at  you,  with 
a  house  full  of  children,  to  take  into  your  family 
4,hat  wild  fellow,  to  corrupt  and  contaminate — " 
"Stop,  friend, "said  Freelingham,  "and  I  will 
put  thy  cavils  at  rest,  by  giving  reasons  for  my 
fejonduct,  that  thee  will  not  be  able  to  upset,  with 
all  thy  dogmas  of  economy  and  morality.  In  the  first  place  we 
are  commanded  to  do  good  to  our  fellow-creatures,  to  take  the 

distressed  stranger  in,  and " 

"He'll  take  you  in,"  said  Rivingstorf,  interrupting  him  in  turn. 
"You  have  a  lovely  daughter,  just  bursting  into  bloom  and  beauty, 
and  nine  other  children,  whose  morals  he  will  contaminate;  and 
what  advantage  do  you  promise  yourself?" 

"I  look  for  no  reward,  but  the  consciousness  of  doing  a  good 
deed." 

"What  do  you  call  a  good  deed?"  sneered  Rivingston.     "Is  it 
to  take  a  wild,  dissipated  fellow  into  your  family  to  corrupt  it,  and 
place  it  in  his  power  to  be  more  dissipated?     I  would  sooner  kick 
him  out  of  my  house,  than  take  him  into  it." 
85 


274  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"Listen  awhile,  friend,"  said  Freelingham,  "thee  is  an  English- 
man, and  we  are  not  more  different  in  our  national  characteristics, 
than  in  our  notions  of  right  and  wrong.  The  young  man  I  have 
protected,  it  is  true,  is  a  stranger,  and  found  himself  in  a  strange 
place  without  a  friend,  and  without  a  penny.  It  is  a  natural  con- 
sequence generally,  that  if  a  man  has  not  a  penny,  he  has  not  a 
friend.  I  found  him  without  a  home,  and  in  great  distress,  and 
that  was  enough  to  call  forth  the  sympathies  of  any  generous 
heart." 

"Aye,"  returned  Rivingston  with  a  sneer,  "and  you'll  find  the 
fable  of  the  farmer  and  the  serpent  verified;  when  you  have  warmed 
and  brought  the  serpent  to  life,  he'll  bite  you." 

"  Well,  well,  if  he  prove  ungrateful,  the  sin  will  be  his  and  not 
mine.  He  is  a  very  well  educated  and  intelligent  young  man; 
but  here  he  comes,  and  he  can  answer  for  himself." 

"Yes,"  said  young  Grandison,  as  he  entered.  "I  am  ready  to 
answer  any  enquiries  that  so  generous  a  friend  may  ask." 

"We  would  like  to  know  thy  history,"  said  Freelingham. 

"You  shall  have  it,  sir,  though  there  are,  or  have  been,  but  few 
incidents  in  my  life.  I  was  born  in  the  state  of  Virginia,  in  what 
is  called  high  life;  that  is,  I  was  born  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and 
reared  in  the  cradle  of  wealth,  no  mean  portion  of  which  I  fell 
heir  to  at  the  death  of  my  parents,  both  of  whom  were  carried  off 
suddenly,  by  a  fatal  epidemic.  With  a  large  fortune,  I  was  thrown 
upon  the  world  at  any  early  age,  with  no  one  to  feel  an  interest 
in  my  moral  welfare,  no  one  to  guide  and  direct  my  steps  in  this 
dangerous  world,  so  full  of  snares  for  the  young  and  inexperi- 
enced. At  the  early  age  of  fifteen  my  guardian,  who  cared 
nothing  about  my  morals,  filled  my  pockets  with  money,  and  I 
was  looked  upon,  and  indeed  I  felt,  as  an  independent  gentleman. 
Fortune  has  thus  been  made  a  curse  to  thousands.  I  was  reared 
to  be  what  is  termed  a  gentleman,  that  is,  without  a  profession 
or  occupation,  for  it  was  considered  that  I  possessed  fortune 
enough  without  descending  to  the  drudgery  of  work,  and  bitterly 
have  I  had  cause  to  repent  it.  My  uncle,  who  was  my  guardian, 
was  a  man  of  loose  habits,  and  the  example  which  he  set  before 
me,  proved  my  ruin.  He  was  a  nabob  in  the  South,  who  was 
caressed,  and  whose  society  was  courted  by  all  the  bloods  of  New 
Orleans,  to  which  city  he  removed  with  me  in  my  sixteenth  year. 
He  was  so  grand,  so  dignified,  so  fashionable,  and  so  much  hon- 
ored by  the  elite  of  New  Orleans,  that  I  learned  to  think  that 
every  thing  he  did  was  noble,  and  every  habit  he  indulged  in 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

beautiful.  To  imitate  him,  who  was  so  universally  admired  and 
courted,  I  considered  the  very  acme  of  elegance  and  style.  Oh! 
how  many  young  men  have  thus  been  blasted  by  pernicious 
example ! 

At  the  splendid  residence  of  my  uncle  I  lived  in  great  luxury 
and  extravagance,  after  I  left  the  University  of  Virginia,  in  which 
institution  I  had  graduated  with  the  highest  honors.  Among  the 
gorgeous  guests  I  learned  how  to  kill  time,  by  indulging  in  every 
species  of  dissipation.  I  had  no  idea  of  the  real  value  of  money 
or  any  kind  of  wealth,  for  my  patrician  hands  had  never  been 
hardened  by  labor,  and  I  had  never  earned  a  single  dollar.  Noth- 
ing but  labor  can  give  us  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  value  of 
money,  and  the  dissipation  of  my  uncle  and  his  grand  array  of 
guests,  soon  taught  me  to  esteem  money  only  as  it  afforded  me 
the  means  of  indulging  in  sensual  gratifications.  Gambling  and 
drinking  were  universally  prevalent,  for  the  warning  voice  of 
temperance  had  not  then  been  heard  from  the  watch-tower  of 
philanthropy,  and  with  pernicious  example  on  every  side,  it  was 
not  strange  that  I  should  become  contaminated.  Alas!  without 
knowing  the  horrors  in  store  for  me,  I  lifted  the  golden  goblet  to 
my  lips,  and  was  ruined.  The  effects  of  stimulus  at  first  were 
delightful,  causing  beautiful  visions  of  imaginary  bliss  to  pass 
through  my  mind,  but  I  awoke  to  unutterable  horrors.  I  slid  in- 
sensibly into  that  vortex,  in  which  so  many  of  the  best  men  have 
perished.  I  struggled  to  break  the  chain  which  bound  me,  but 
alas!  I  struggled  in  vain." 

"It  is  too  late  to  weep  now,"  unfeelingly  observed  Rivingston, 
who  observed  the  young  man  to  be  overpowered  by  his  feelings. 

"Nay,  these  are  the  blessed  tears  of  repentance,"  remarked  the 
good-hearted  merchant. 

"I  was  thinking,"  resumed  Grandison,  "of  all  the  misfortunes 
and  miseries  that  sprung  from  the  evil  examples  that  surrounded 
me,  and  of  the  miserable  habits  I  contracted.  Many  a  bitter  tear 
have  I  shed,  when  I  have  ineffectually  striven  to  free  myself  from 
those  fatal  habits.  Imitating  my  uncle  and  his  associates,  I  lived 
extravagantly,  and  indulged  in  gambling  and  drinking  to  a  ruinous 
extent.  When  I  arrived  at  the  age  of  manhood,  and  my  fortune 
came  into  my  hands,  I  gave  way  to  extravagance  in  every  form. 
I  bought  a  splendid  house  in  New  Orleans,  which  became  the 
centre  of  dissipation,  thronged  with  the  votaries  of  fashion  and  the 
devotees  of  the  gaming-table." 

"How  much  fortune  did  you  possess?"  enquired  Rivingston.'   ' 


276  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"My  grandfather  had  made  a  princely  fortune  in  New  York,  as 
a  shipping  merchant,  which,  through  my  father  fell  to  me.  It  is 
almost  incredible  that  I  should  so  soon  have  wasted  so  much,  the 
income  of  which,  every  year,  was  a  handsome  little  fortune.  But 
constant  dropping  of  water,  says  the  old  proverb,  will  wear  away 
stone ;  and  constant  extravagance  will  exhaust  the  largest  estate. 
I  became  so  passionately  fond  of  the  gaming  table  that  I  might 
have  been  said  almost  to  have  lived  at  it,  and  more  than  once  have 
I  gambled  away  thousands  at  one  sitting.  Being  naturally  gen- 
erous and  liberal  in  my  disposition,  and,  as  I  said  before,  having 
no  idea  of  the  value  of  money,  I  was  applied  to  by  every  adven- 
turer who  wished  to  borrow  large  sums,  and  I  endorsed  for  many, 
in  almost  every  instance  of  which  I  lost  or  had  the  money  to  pay. 
I  found  securityship  a  bad  business,  as  thousands  have  and  thou- 
sands will  yet  find  it  to  be;  but  the  pride  of  being  called  the  friend 
of  the  needy,  and  of  having  it  in  my  power  to  assist  others,  urged 
me  on  in  the  road  to  ruin.  Those  who  sought  my  assistance,  in 
the  way  of  endorsing  their  paper  or  going  security  for  them,  flat- 
tered me  as  a  great  public  benefactor,  as  a  wonderful  philanthro- 
pist, and  I  was  weak  enough,  being  always  under  the  influence 
of  ardent  spirits,  to  become  the  tool  of  the  designing,  who  saw  the 
degree  of  gullibility  under  which  I  labored.  But  to  hasten  to  a 
conclusion,  for  the  subject  is  painful,  I  soon  discovered  that  in 
various  ways  I  was  wasting  my  estate.  Several  failures  occurred, 
by  each  of  which  I  lost  thousands,  till  at  length  I  found  I  had  but 
few  thousands  to  lose.  My  property  was  seized  to  pay  the  liabil- 
ities of  others,  and  as  I  saw  myself  going  to  ruin,  a  desperation 
came  upon  me,  and  I  madly  rushed  on.  Gladly  would  I  have 
reformed  my  life,  and  retrieved  my  fallen  fortunes,  but  it  was  too 
late.  I  was  in  the  grasp  of  the  demon  intemperance." 

"What  ensued?"  enquired  the  merchant,  deeply  interested. 

"One  morning,"  said  Grandison,  while  tears  were  trickling 
down  his  face,  "I  stepped  out  of  a  gambling  house,  where  I  had 
gambled  away  my  last  dollar.  A  fire  had  occurred,  but  a  few  days 
before,  and  burnt  a  row  of  my  buildings;  and  as  misfortunes  never 
iome  alone,  a  large  firm  had  broken,  aud  left  me  minus  about 
twenty  thousand  dollars.  To  come  to  the  point  at  once,  I  found 
myself  alone  in  the  world,  and  a  beggar,  for  my  uncle,  for  some 
slight  pretended  offence,  poverty  was  the  real  one,  discarded  me, 
though  he  knew  that  his  pernicious  example  had  wrought  my 
ruin.  I  found,  by  woful  experience,  that  poverty  was  a  great 
offence;  that  though  it  has  been  said  to  be  no  disgrace,  that  it 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARD.  277 

was  the  worst  of  infamy  ;  that  my  nearest  and  dearest  friends  were 
altered  in  their  manner  towards  me,  or  were  my  enemies;  and 
that  my  nearest  relatives  threw  my  faults  in  my  face,  to  cover  their 
cupidity  and  want  of  feeling,  in  refusing  to  assist  me.  I  have 
discovered  that  prosperity  is  harder  to  bear  than  adversity,  and 
that  an  utter  stranger  will  open  his  ear  to  the  cry  of  distress,  and 
his  purse  to  the  poverty  of  an  individual,  sooner  than  a  relative, 
who  is  lavish  in  useless  advice.  Adversity  is  a  good  school  of 
wisdom.  It  has  taught  me  much  of  human  nature,  and  of  the 
nature  of  friendship." 

"But  go  on  with  your  narrative,"  said  the  merchant. 

"Well,  my  property  was  all  sold,  and  the  very  men  whom  I  had 
started  in  business,  and  who  on  my  money  had  realized  fortunes, 
not  only  refused  to  assist  me  in  my  distress,  but  actually  cut  my 
acquaintance,  when  I  had  come  to  poverty.  Oh!  ingratitude!  I 
have  seen  much  of  it  in  my  short  life;  and  many  of  my  old  friends, 
who  had  once  felt  proud  to  cultivate  my  friendship,  now  passed  me 
unnoticed  on  the  street.  I  felt  this  neglect  keenly;  but  the  in- 
gratitude of  those  whom  I  had  benefited  I  felt  far  more,  and  it 
brought  with  it  a  kind  of  desperation,  which  drove  me  deeper  into 
dissipated  habits.  I  strove  hard  to  reform,  and  in  tears  I  bowed 
down  before  God,  and  prayed  fervently  that  he  would  assist  me  to 
overcome  my  evil  propensities,  but  it  was  not  until  I  experienced 
the  grace  of  God,  that  I  had  power  to  do  so.:> 

The  good-hearted  merchant,  at  this  announcement,  looked 
astonished,  and  smiled  with  pleasure. 

"But,"  continued  Grandison,  "the  power  of  the  evil  one 
tempted  me  away  from  the  right  path,  and  I  left  New  Orleans,  and 
wandered  in  pursuit  of  employment,  No  one  would  employ  me, 
because  I  was  dissipated;  and  distress  of  mind  at  my  forlorn  con- 
dition, drove  me  deeper  in  dissipation.  Oh!  could  I  have  met 
but  a  friend,  like  you,  to  sustain  and  encourage  me  in  the  despe- 
rate effort,  I  should  long  since  have  forsaken  the  evil  of  my  ways. 
How  many  are  there,  who  have  slidden  into  the  whirlpool  of  in- 
temperance, who  would  gladly  be  rescued,  would  some  friend  but 
stretch  his  hand  to  save.  It  requires  a  Herculean  effort  to  break 
the  chain  of  a  strong  habit,  but  I  feel  that  by  the  assistance  of  you, 
my  friend,  I  shall  conquer,  and  once  more  be  a  man." 

The  young  man,  with  a  subdued  manner,  arose,  left  the  room, 
and  walked  up  Market  street. 

"What  does  thee  think  of  him  now?"  enquired  the  merchant. 


278  WITINGS  OP  THE  MILPOD  BARD. 

"The  same  that  I  did  before,"  returned  Rivingston.  "Did  you 
not  hear  him  say  he  had  reformed  and  fallen  ?  There  is  no  de- 
pendence on  a  man  who  has  once  been  dissipated." 

"Come,  come,  friend  Rivingston,  thou  art  rather  too  severe. 
Thee  might  as  well  say  that  a  man  who  has  once  fallen  in  piety 
can  never  be  restored.  I  know  a  man  who  was  very  intemperate 
until  forty  years  of  age,  who  then  resolved  to  reform,  and  after 
breaking  his  pledge  twice,  did  reform ;  became  pious,  and  never 
was  known,  during  a  long  life,  to  taste  ardent  spirits."  . 

"But  can  you  name  another  single  instance?" 

"Yes,  I  can  name  to  thee  a  very  talented  and  celebrated  man, 
that  thee  will  recognize  instantly,  who  was  no  other  than  the  great 
statesman,  orator  and  writer, .  He  drank  to  the  greatest  ex- 
cess, and  was  often  seen  down  on  the  streets,  though  he  reformed 
entirely,  and  was  afterwards  a  candidate  for  the  presidency.  Many 
a  man  might  be  reformed,  by  a  little  kindness  and  assistance  from 
his  fellow-man." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Rivingston,  "I  would  not  have  such  a  fellow 
in  my  family,  for  by  and  by  he'll  take  advantage  of  you." 

"Thee  thinks  meanly  of  human  nature.  I  have  not  only  taken 
him  into  my  large  family,  but  I  offered  to  give  him  a  genteel  suit 
of  clothes,  but  he  would  not  accept  the  cloth,  unless  I  would  con- 
sent to  charge  it  to  him  and  receive  payment  hereafter  when  he 
is  able  to  get  employment." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Rivingston,  "I  see  how  it  is;  by  these 
little  deceptions  he  is  preparing  the  way  to  swindle  you." 

"Poh!  poh!  I  wouldn't  have  thy  opinion  of  mankind,  for  the 
world.  I  believe  the  young  man's  heart  is  right,  and  he  is  en- 
deavoring to  retrieve  the  errors  of  the  past.  I  shall  continue  to 
assist  him  in  well  doing,  and  shall  give  him  my  confidence,  until 
he  betrays  it.  I  will  aid  him  all  in  my  power  to  become  a  tempe- 
rate and  useful  man,  though  at  present  I  see  no  prospect  of  his 
ever  repaying  me  for  what  he  gets." 

"And  never  will,"  said  Rivingston  bluntly,  as  he  arose  and  left 
the  room. 

"It  must  be  a  bad  man  at  heart,"  mentally  ejaculated  the  mer- 
chant, "  who  is  thus  ever  suspecting  the  motives  of  his  fellow-man. 
I  have  ever  observed,  that  a  man  who  is  guilty  of  a  vice  is  most 
ready  to  suspect  it  in  another,  and  is  most  severe  when  it  is  dis- 
covered. I  am  always  afraid  of  that  man  who  is  ready  to  impute 
the  worst  of  motives  to  another,  and  who  has  no  mercy  for  the 
errors  of  his  fellow-man ;  for  I  have  invariably  found,  that  men  the 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  279 

most  virtuous  and  most  free  from  the  common  vices  of  mankind, 
are  most  willing  and  ready  to  forgive  the  vices  and  follies  of  others." 

The  generous  merchant  of  Wilmington,  after  musing  a  while, 
closed  his  store,  on  Market  street,  and  retired  to  the  bosom  of  his 
large  family.  Ezekiel  Freelingham  belonged  to  that  plain,  un- 
pretending, and  truly  pious  sect  of  people,  denominated,  in  derision, 
Quakers,  properly  Friends.  A  better-hearted,  or  more  generous 
man  than  Ezekiel  Freelingham,  never  drew  the  breath  of  life. 
He  had  lived  a  strictly  virtuous  and  temperate  life ;  had  married 
early  a  very  amiable  woman,  and  had,  at  the  time  of  which  we 
write,  a  family  of  ten  children,  the  eldest  of  whom  was  a  daughter, 
Clara,  who  was  just  bursting  into  the  beautiful  bloom  of  woman- 
hood; and  a  beautiful  little  creature  she  was,  and  as  amiable,  gentle 
and  intelligent,  as  she  was  pretty. 

The  young  man,  Grandison,  Charles  Grandison,  of  whom  we 
have  been  speaking,  was  found  by  the  merchant  in  great  distress. 
He  had  arrived  at  Wilmington,  without  a  penny  in  his  pocket, 
and  found  himself,  on  one  of  the  coldest  nights  in  January,  wan- 
dering the  streets,  without  a  home  and  without  a  friend,  not 
knowing  where  he  should  lay  his  head.  Freelingham  observed 
him  for  some  time,  gazing  up  and  down  the  street,  like  one  lost. 
He  knew  him  to  be  a  stranger,  for  it  was  not  then  as  it  is  now,  in 
Wilmington.  Every  resident's  person,  as  well  as  his  business, 
was  then  known  to  be  such,  as  soon  as  seen.  Ezekiel  watched 
his  motions,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  until  he  saw  him  seat 
himself  on  a  block,  at  the  end  of  the  market  house,  and  burst 
into  tears.  Ezekiel  saw  that  he  was  in  distress,  and  needed  no 
incitement  to  awaken  his  sympathy,  for  he  was  ever  ready  to  hear 
the  cry  of  distress.  He  immediately  approached,  and  enquired 
the  cause  of  his  grief;  to  which  the  young  man  responded,  that 
he  was  a  stranger,  penniless,  friendless,  homeless.  He-  gave  a 
short  account  of  his  past  career,  and  stated  his  desire  to  reform  his 
life,  and  to  become  a  useful  member  of  society,  by  devoting  him- 
self to  some  useful  employment.  The  merchant  bade  him  rise 
and  follow  him,  which  he  did,  down  Market  street.  When  they 
arrived  at  the  door,  the  merchant  turned  to  him,  and  said  kindly: 
"  Come  in,  here  is  my  house,  make  it  your  home  till  you  can  do 
better,  and  may  God  prosper  you." 

The  heart  of  the  young  man  swelled  with  emotion;  his  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  for  a  while  he  could  not  speak;  but  he 
grasped  the  hand  of  the  generous  merchant,  with  a  firm  and  earnest 
pressure,  that  denoted  his  gratitude.  The  liberal  offer  of  so  gen- 


280  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

teel  and  comfortable  a  home  was  more  than  he  expected,  and 
great  was  his  relief  when  Clara,  with  her  own  fair  hands,  at  the 
request  of  her  mother,  set  a  good  supper  before  him,  for  he  had 
eaten  nothing  that  day. 

From  that  ever  remembered  night,  Charles  Grandison  became 
domesticated  in  the  merchant's  family,  and  his  conduct  did  not 
diminish  the  hope  and  regard  which  his  benefactor  entertained  for 
him.  He  had  a  hard  struggle  to  overcome  his  powerful  habits; 
but,  by  the  encouragement  of  his  friend,  and  by  dint  of  a  deter- 
mined resolution,  he  came  out  conqueror,  finally;  and  declared 
that  he  felt  better  than  he  remembered  ever  to  have  felt  before. 

After  he  had  conquered  his  habits,  and  had  partaken  of  the  hos- 
pitality and  kindness  of  his  benefactor  for  several  weeks,  for 
which  and  his  clothes,  he  considered  himself  indebted,  he  thought 
it  was  time  to  look  out  for  employment,  that  he  might  obtain  the 
means  to  pay  his  friend. 

"I  will  employ  thee  in  my  store,  if  thee  will  stay,"  said  the 
merchant,  when  Charles  mentioned  his  intention  of  going.  "Thee 
can  go  or  stay  as  thee  likes  best." 

"I  will  gladly  stay,"  returned  Charles,  with  a  smile  of  pleasure, 
as  he  glanced  at  the  lovely  face  of  Clara,  who,  unknown  to  any 
one  but  herself,  was  equally  glad  at  the  determination  of  Charles, 
for  in  her  eye  he  was  a  very  pleasant  companion.  She  felt  that 
his  absence  would  afflict  her,  without  enquiring  the  cause,  or  even 
daring  to  confess  lo  herself  that  he  was  any  more  to  her  than  any 
other  friend.  His  conversation  was  so  pleasing,  she  said,  and  his 
manners  so  easy  and  winning,  that  she  could  not  help  liking  him  ; 
while,  at  the  same  time,  she  knew  that  the  sly  little  god  Cupid  had, 
more  than  once,  knocked  for  admittance  at  the  door  of  her  little 
heart,  in  which  Love  would  find  many  of  the  Virtues,  and  more 
than  one  of  the  Graces,  to  keep  him  company. 

Charles,  though  a  perfect  stranger  to  business,  rapidly  became 
an  adept  as  a  salesman,  as  well  as  a  book-keeper,  and  his  art  in 
selling  goods  became  so  well  known,  that  many  merchants  wanted 
him,  and  would  have  given  him  much  more  than  he  was  receiving; 
but  he  would  not  leave  his  friend,  or  benefactor  as  he  called  him, 
for  he  declared  that  the  kindness  he  had  shown  him,  and  the  obli- 
gations he  had  been  under  to  him,  had  saved  him  from  utter  ruin. 
Gratitude  was  one  of  the  virtues  of  Charles  Grandison's  heart. 

Every  day  he  rose  higher  and  higher  in  the  estimation  of  his 
friend,  the  merchant;  nor  less  was  he  rising  in  the  estimation  of 
the  beautiful,  amiable,  and  intelligent  Clara.  A  year  rolled  away 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  281 

since  the  sad  night,  when  he  was  in  ^  strange  place,  and  was 
without  money,  friends  and  a  home,  until  he  found  them  in  the 
family  of  the  generous  merchant.  He,  many  a  cold  stormy  night, 
when  comfortably  seated  in  the  parlor  with  Clara,  referred  to  that 
melancholy  period  of  his  existence,  and  to  the  never  to  be  for- 
gotten kindness  of  her  father,  to  which  she  listened,  as  did  the 
fair  Desdemona  to  the  story  of  the  Moor  of  Venice, 

"  She  loved  him  for  the  dangers  he  had  pass'd, 
And  he  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them." 

So  much  did  Charles  grow  in  the  esteem  of  his  employer,  that 
he  entirely  ceased  his  vigilance  in  watching  over  his  daughter,  for 
the  conduct  of  the  young  man  was  exemplary  in  every  respect, 
and  he  became  piously  inclined.  At  first  the  merchant  was  led, 
from  the  language  of  Rivingston,  to  watch  him  narrowly,  lest  he 
might  take  advantage  of  his  kindness;  but  he  became  satisfied 
that  Charles  Grandison  possessed  a  soul  of  honor,  and  that  he 
would  not  stoop  to  a  mean  action. 

"  Well,  what  does  thee  think  now  of  the  young  man  I  took  into 
my  house?"  enquired  the  merchant,  with  pride,  one  day,  as  he 
met  Rivingston  on  the  street. 

"Don't  boast  too  soon,"  returned  Rivingston,  "you'll  have 
ample  time  to  repent  it  yet.  Mark  my  words,  you'll  find  a  wolf 
in  sheep's  clothing  yet,  or  I'm  much  mistaken." 

"  Strange,"  said  the  merchant  to  himself  as  he  passed  on, 
"  what  a  pleasure  some  people  take  in  thinking  evil  of  others. 
They  seem  to  look  on  the  dark  side  of  every  thing;  they  love  to 
prophecy  evil  of  other  people,  and  then  rejoice  if  their  evil  pro- 
phecies happen  to  prove  true.  They  would  rather  be  under  the 
necessity  of  speaking  evil  of  a  man  than  good,  and  they  secretly 
rejoice  at  the  calamities  of  others.  What  pleasure  they  can  possibly 
find  in  the  misery  of  their  fellow-beings  I  cannot  conceive,  for  it 
gives  me  pain  to  hear  of  the  downfall  of  any  one,  though  it  be 
one  of  the  humblest  of  our  race." 

Thus  the  generous  merchant  of  Wilmington  mused,  as  he 
wended  his  way  homeward;  and  a  happier  home  did  not  exist  in 
this  happy  land.  His  family  had  been  reared  and  regulated  ac- 
cording to  the  quiet  principles  that  guide  and  govern  the  conduct 
of  the  Friends,  and  so  regularly  did  every  thing  go  on,  that  it 
seemed  like  clock-work.  Peace,  love  and  order,  were  the  presiding 
deities.  The  bickerings,  and  unpleasant  scenes  which  occur  in 
badly  regulated  families,  were  never  known  in  his.  Constant  sun- 
36 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

shine  was  there,  and  every  member  was  solicitous  of  giving 
happiness  to  the  rest.  Freelingham,  the  merchant,  when  he 
married,  or  rather  just  before  he  married,  made  a  contract  with  his 
wife,  that  they  would  live  together  in  peace,  and  studiously  avoid 
every  cause  of  offence.  This  they  afterwards  put  in  practice. 
Instead  of  disputing  about  trifles,  they  made  mutual  concessions; 
and,  if,  at  any  time,  the  one  should  happen  to  get  a  little  out  of 
temper,  the  other  was  silent,  or  kindly  endeavored  to  soothe.  The 
consequence  was,  there  was  never  any  disturbance  in  the  family. 
How  happy  and  peaceful  would  the  world  become,  if  all  persons 
before  marriage  would  make  such  an  agreement,  and  keep  it  sacred, 
as  did  this  exemplary  pair,  whose  days  flowed  on  in  uninterrupted 
peace  and  pleasure. 

Charles  Grandison  had  never  passed  his  time  in  such  uninter- 
rupted happiness;  the  contrast  between  his  present  and  past 
life,  struck  him  forcibly.  He  had  never  been  so  happy  in  the 
gaudy  halls  of  grandeur  and  dissipation,  for  his  life  then  was  one 
constant  feverish  dream ;  now  it  was  a  beautiful  reality  of  pure, 
calm,  rational  enjoyment,  which  left  no  sting  behind. 

Every  day  Charles,  almost  insensibly,  became  more  and  more 
attached  to  Clara;  for  he  saw  in  her  mother  a  model  of  what  she 
promised  to  be;  but  he  trembled  when  he  thought  of  the  depth 
to  which  he  was  suffering  his  attachment  to  go,  and  of  the  disap- 
pointment that  he  feared,  nay,  felt  almost  confident,  must  follow, 
if  he  aspired  to  the  hand  of  Clara.  He  had  frankly  told  the  story 
of  his  former  dissipated  life,  which,  however,  he  did  not  regret, 
for  truth  is  always  best;  and  knowing  how  strict  the  Friends  are 
in  regard  to  moral  character,  he  feared  that  the  merchant  would 
not  trust  him  with  a  jewel  so  precious  as  his  daughter.  Then  that 
incorrigible  enemy,  poverty,  was  against  him,  and  that  alone  was 
an  insuperable  barrier.  He,  therefore,  thought  it  the  wisest  course 
to  struggle  against  that  affection,  which  was  stealing  into  his  heart. 
But  he  did  not  know  the  powerful  strength  of  that  passion,  until 
he  attempted  to  overcome  it,  nor  did  he  know  that  the  fair  Clara 
felt  for  him  any  more  than  mere  friendship,  until  his  altered  manner 
and  coldness  threw  her  off  her  guard,  and  betrayed  the  fact  that 
she  had  secretly  indulged  and  cherished  an  affection  for  him,  as 
deep  and  undying  as  that  which  he  felt  for  her.  Her  mild,  melting 
blue  eye  had  often  told  tales  of  her  partiality;  but  he  doubted, 
knowing  that  all  women  are  more  or  less  coquettish;  and  though 
she  had  rejected  one  suitor,  under  circumstances  that  went  plainly 
to  prove  that  it  was  on  his  account,  still  he  doubted  whether  she 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  283 

felt  for  him  any  more  than  friendship.     Love  is  very  suspicious,  as 
well  as  jealous. 

When  Charles  formed  his  resolution  to  overcome  the  feelings  in 
time,  he  endeavored  to  avoid  the  society  of  Clara  as  much  as  pos- 
sible, so  as  not  to  be  observed  ;  but  the  quick  eye  of  woman's 
affection  saw  it.  and  the  effect  was  soon  seen  in  the  altered  manner 
of  Clara.  She  was  no  longer  cheerful,  and  her  cheek  became 
pale.  One  day  Charles  suddenly  entered  the  room  where  she  was, 
and  surprised  her  in  tears,  and  discovered  from  a  sentence  she 
had  written  with  a  pencil,  that  his  altered  manner  was  the  cause 
of  her  unhappiness.  His  resolution  instantly  forsook  him;  he 
took  her  hand  between  both  of  his,  and  sunk  down  on  the  sofa 
beside  her;  but  in  vain  he  endeavored  to  summon  resolution  to 
unbosom  himself.  He  trembled,  and  observed  the  same  tremulous 
motion  in  her  hand.  She  lifted  to  his  her  tearful  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  though  not  a  word  was  spoken,  he  felt  that  his  fate 
henceforth  was  forever  sealed  up  with  hers.  He  silently  arose  and 
left  her,  with  the  resolve  to  cherish  the  affection  he  felt  for  so  pure 
and  lovely  a  creature,  be  the  consequence  what  it  might.  He  felt 
a  deep  degree  of  gratitude  to  her,  for  cherishing  an  affection  for 
him  in  his  poverty,  when  she  knew  that  he  had  been  wild  and  ex- 
travagant, dissipated  and  reckless. 

Charles  Grandison  knew  not  how  high  he  stood  in  the  estimation 
of  the  merchant,  during  the  second  year  of  his  reformation.  Indeed 
it  could  not  be  otherwise,  for  many  persons  had  noticed  his  genteel 
bearing  and  moral  course  of  life,  and  spoke  of  him  in  the  highest 
terms.  The  father  and  mother  of  Clara  both  noticed  the  growing 
attachment  of  the  young  couple,  and  said  nothing;  for  Charles 
was  very  attentive  to  business,  and  had  gained  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  all  the  merchant's  affairs. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  second  year  of  the  clerkship  of  Charles, 
that  he  was  seated  with  Clara  before  a  cheerful  fire,  in  the  cold 
month  of  January.  He  had  purposely  sought  the  meeting,  to 
know  her  sentiments  with  regard  to  him,  as  she  was  now  addressed 
by  one  of  the  most  wealthy  young  men  in  Philadelphia. 

"Tell  me  seriously,"  said  he,  "whether  you  regard  me.  and 
whether  I  am  to  live  in  hope,  or  crush  the  dearest " 

"  Have  not  my  actions  told  thee,  Charles,  long  Since,  that  I  have 
never  regarded  any  but  thee  ?  I  have  been  taught  to  be  candid, 
and  I  confess  that  thy  regard  for  me  cannot  be  more  sincere,  than 
that  I  feel  for  thee.  I  first  pitied  and  then  loved  thee,  and  nothing 
can  destroy  my  regard." 


284  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"  Enough,  dearest  Clara,  I  am  henceforth  the  happiest  of  men. 
I  shall  live  for  you  alone." 

It  was  not  long  after  this  interview,  that  Charles  Grandison  solicited 
the  hand  of  Clara  in  marriage,  and  it  was  pledged  to  him.  The 
parents,  finding  that  the  happiness  of  their  child  depended  upon 
it,  soon  made  up  their  minds,  and  the  time  was  appointed  for  the 
marriage  to  take  place.  Never,  perhaps,  were  two  young  persons 
more  completely  happy,  for  the  affection  they  cherished  for  each 
other  was  disinterested,  and  unpolluted  by  any  sinister  or  sordid 
motives. 

One  day,  a  little  before  the  time  the  marriage  was  to  take  place, 
the  merchant  came  home  with  a  cloud  on  his  brow. 

"Ah!  Rachel,"  he  sa*id  to  his  wife,  "I  have  seen  a  man  from 
the'  South,  who  brings  bad  tidings  concerning  Charles,  and  we 
must  break  off  the  match,  unless " 

"What  is  it,  for  mercy's  sake?"  enquired  Rachel,  turning  pale 
with  affright. 

"He  says  that  Charles  Grandison  killed  a  man  in  New  Orleans, 
and  had  to  fly  from  the  State." 

"Oh!  dear,"  exclaimed  his  wife,  "this  is  heart-breaking  news 
for  poor  Clara,  and  she  must  not  hear  it  suddenly." 

"It  is  all  over  town  by  this  time,"  said  the  merchant,  "and  the 
marriage  must  proceed  no  further." 

The  next  instant  Charles  rushed  into  the  room,  pale  as  one  just 
risen  from  the  dead.  He  had  heard  the  report,  and  knew  that  it 
would  be  in  vain  to  deny  it,  unsubstantiated  by  proof.  He  seemed 
like  a  man  suddenly  bereft  of  his  senses,  while  loudly  and  wildly 
he  protested  his  innocence.  The  sound  of  his  voice  brought  Clara 
into  the  room,  and,  as  Charles  ran  at  her  like  a  madman,  exclaiming : 

"I  am  innocent!  Oh!  Clara,  I  am  innocent  of  the  crime!" 
she  swooned,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  her  father. 

Some  time  elapsed  ere  Clara  revived,  and  then  she  awoke  to 
wretchedness,  though  she  resolutely  refused  to  believe  that  Charles 
had  been  a  murderer.  The  man,  who  brought  the  news,  had  a 

•   f  o  ' 

New  Orleans  paper,  in  which  a  large  reward  was  offered  for  the 
apprehension  of  Charles  Grandison,  who  slew  a  man  in  New 
Orleans  and  had  fled  from  the  city. 

The  good  merchant  was  grieved,  for  he  could  not  shut  his  eyes 

to  the  evidence  before  him.     There  were  names  and  dates.     The 

mother's  grief  was  great,  thus  to  see    her   daughter's  happiness 

blasted  in  the  morning  of  life.     Poor  Clara  was  distracted,  and 

• 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  285 

was  prostrated  on  a  bed  of  sickness,  by  this  horrible  charge  against 
her  plighted  husband. 

Lander,  the  man  from  New  Orleans,  determined  to  secure  the 
reward,  and  accordingly  procured  an  officer  and  arrested  Charles 
Grandison.  Charles  expressed  a  willingness  to  go.  and  requested 
only  time  to  make  some  little  preparation.  When  he  went  to  the 
chamber  of  Clara,  to  bid  her  farewell,  she  fainted,  at  the  moment 
he  took  her  hand  and  fell  upon  his  knees  to  protest  his  innocence 
of  the  crime  with  which  he  was  charged,  and  to  implore  her  to 
suspend  her  opinion  of  him  until  she  should  see  him  again. 
Fearing  the  consequences,  should  he  remain,  longer,  he  arose  and 
with  a  bursting  heart,  left  her  in  charge  of  her  weeping  mother. 

"Alas!"  said  the  merchant,  as  he  stood  gazing  upon  the  stage 
as  it  rolled  down  Market  street  conveying  away  the  young  man 
he  had  been  a  father  to,  and  who  was  soon  to  'have  become  his 
his  son  by  marriage,  "how  strange  are  the  vicissitudes  of  life,  and 
how  singular  is  the  fortune  of  some  men  !  With  all  his  former  errors, 
I  believed  Charles  to  be  a  young  man  of  excellent  qualities,  and 
even  now  I  cannot  believe  him  guilty  of  murder,  notwithstanding 
the  strong  circumstantial  evidence  against  him.  I  do  not  repent 
having  been  his  friend,  for  he  has  thus  been  induced  to  forsake 
his  intemperate  habits." 

"What  do  you  think  of  your  protegee  now?"  interrogated 
Rivingston,  as  he  came  up  rubbing  his  hands  with  apparent 
pleasure  that  evil  had  befallen  Charles.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  so! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  that  you'd  repent  your  bargain,  and  that  he  was 
a  villain;  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing?  Didn't  I  tell  you  he  would 
aspire  to  the  hand  of  your  daughter,  and  bring  misery  upon  her? 
This  is  what  comes  of  young  ladies  listening  to  the  love  of  strangers. 
Many  girls  from  being  too  anxious  to  get  married,  have  thrown 
themselves  away  upon  strangers,  and  have  been  awakened  from 
their  dream  of  connubial  bliss  to  find  themselves  in  the  arms  of 
murderers,  as  your  daughter  had  like  to  have  done.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  the  old  proverb  is  true  as  gospel,  that  strange 
faces  make  fools  fond." 

"  Well,  I've  heard  thee  through,"  returned  the  merchant,  "  and 
I  must  be  allowed  to  speak  my  mind  as  plainly  as  thee  has  done. 
In  the  first  place,  friend  Rivingston,  I  believe  that  thee  loves  to 
prophecy  evil  things  of  thy  fellow-men;  and  in  the  second  place, 
that  thee  takes  pleasure  in  seeing  thy  evil  prophecies  fulfilled.  It 
is  very  true,  that  we  should  not  hastily  place  our  confidence  in 


286  -WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

strangers,  but  to  tell  thee  the  truth,  I  would  sooner  run  the  risk 
of  being  betrayed,  than  never  to  trust  my  fellow-beings." 

"  You  are  wrong  in  your  opinion  of  me,"  stammered  Rivingston, 
for  he  felt  that  the  merchant  had  touched  upon  the  right  key, 
though  he  pretended  it  was  the  wrong  one.  "  I  am  not  pleased 
at  the  evil  of  others,  but  the  superior  advantages  I  have  had  in 
England,  in  point  of  education  and  society,  have  given  me  a 
knowledge  of  human  nature  that  qualifies  me  to  judge  of  men, 
and  of  the  result  of  their  actions,  in  a  manner  that  could  not  be 
expected  of  a  person  raised  in  this  country." 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  the  merchant,  speaking  ironically,  and  somewhat 
nettled  at  the  disparaging  observation,  "there's  nothing  good  out 
of  England,  and  every  thing  in  England  is  always  superior  to  any 
thing  in  any  other  country;  but  if  the  superior  advantages  thee 
speaks  of  have  the  same  influence  on  all  other  hearts  that  they 
have  on  thine,  I  would  prefer  the  inferior  advantages  of  American 
education  and  society,  with  all  the  ignorance  arising  therefrom." 

"You  are  very  severe  to-day,  friend  Ezekiel." 

"Not  more  than  thou  art,  friend  Rivingston.  Thee  seems  to 
have  prided  thyself  on  a  want  of  feeling  for  the  unfortunate  young 
man  from  the  first,  and  to  have  taken  pleasure  in  foreboding,  and 
in  the  fulfilment  of  the  evil  fate  that  followed  him.  Now,  friend 
Rivingston,  I  never  knew  a  man  who  rejoiced  in  the  folly  and  the 
downfall  of  others,  who  .did  not  in  the  end  meet  the  same  or  « 
similar  fate  himself,  though  he  might  prosper  awhile.  Amon^ 
the  laws  of  Divine  Providence,  which  regulate  the  affairs  of  men, 
there  is  one  of  retribution,  and  by  it,  sooner  or  later,  every  man 
receives  justice.  For  every  bad  action,  we  suffer  even  in  this 
world,  as  certainly  as  we  commit  it;  and,  vice  versa,  for  every  good 
one,  we  are  rewarded." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  laughed  Rivingston  in  derision,  "if  I  am  to 
admit  your  superstitious  notions,  I  should  say  that  you  have  received 
a  great  reward  for  your  good  action  in  taking  a  murderer  into 
your  house,  and  who  had  as  good  as  become  the  husband  of  your 
daughter." 

This  thrust  at  the  good-hearted  merchant  was  severe,  but  he 
calmly  replied,  without  exhibiting  any  degree  of  passion. 

"  I  expected  no  reward  for  doing  what  I  did.  The  approval  of 
my  conscience,  for  having  rescued  a  fellow-being  from  want  and 
from  the  vorlex  of  ruin,  was  reward  enough;  but,  friend  Rivings- 
ton, I  have  faith  to  believe  that  I  shall  never  suffer  in  the  end  for 
having  done  a  good  deed.  The  ways  of  Providence  are  mysterious, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  287 

and  we  cannot  at  all  times  trace  each  link  in  the  long  chain  of 
circumstances;  hence  what  at  first  may  appear  a  curse,  will,  in 
the  course  of  time  and  circumstances,  eventuate  as  a  blessing." 

"A  plague  take  such  blessings  as  your  boasted  Providence  has 
seen  fit  to  bestow  on  you,"  said  Rivingston  in  derision.  "I  should 
not  desire  many  such  blessings  from  any  humbug  Providence." 

"  Thee  is  a  worse  man  than  I  imagined  thee  to  be." 

"  What  bugbear  have  you  now  discovered,  friend  Ezekiel?" 

"I  discover  thee  to  be  an  infidel,  and  so  sure  as  Voltaire  re- 
pented in  his  dying  moments,  so  sure  will  tribulation  come  upon 
thee.  Let  me  advise  thee  to  reform  thy  ways  and  opinions,  or 
that  law  of  retribution,  of  which  I  spoke,  will  overtake  thee." 

"  I  defy  it — let  it  come !"  exclaimed  Rivingston,  with  an  affected 
laugh.  "  I  shall  never  believe  in  the  superstitious  nonsense  that  you 
teach." 

"  Thee  will  repent  it,  perhaps,  when  too  late." 

"Never,  I  hope,  so  much  as  you  have  cause  to  repent  the  folly 
of  fostering  in  your  family  a  murderer,  and  of  murdering  the  peace 
of  your  daughter,  by  suffering  her  to  think  of  such  a  fellow." 

"Let  time  prove  the  matter,"  said  the  merchant  calmly. 

"Ay,  and  it  will  be  a  sore  trial  to  you  in  the  end.  I  know  not 
which  to  deprecate  most,  your  folly  or  your  insolence." 

"Well!  well!  friend  Rivingston,  it  is  useless  for  thee  to  become 
angry  at  what  I  have  said,  for  I  have  only  followed  thy  example  of 
•peaking  plainly,  and  I  spoke  the  truth." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Ezekiel  Freelingham,  and  if  I  mistake  not,"  said 
Rivingston,  with  a  dark  expression  of  countenance,  "you'll  have 
more  cause  for  repentance  than  I.  Remember,  sir,  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  one  man  being  in  the  power  of  another." 

"Thee  alludes  to  my  indebtedness,  I  suppose?"  interrogated 
the  merchant,  as  with  surprise  he  looked  at  Rivingston. 

"  It  matters  not  to  what  I  allude,  but  you  had  better  mind  whom 
you  insult,"  returned  Rivingston,  with  an  ominous  look,  as  he 
wheeled  on  his  heel  and  went  down  the  street  like  lightning. 

Rivingston  was  a  morose,  ill-natured  man,  who  cherished  malice, 
when  once  he  conceived  a  dislike.  He  never  forgave  what  he 
considered  an  insult,  and  no  kind  offices  could  appease  him  when 
offended.  He  was  inclined  to  think  the  worst  of  all  men,  and 
nothing  galled  him  like  being  told  of  his  real  character.  His 
hatred  was  bitter,  and  he  stopped  at  nothing  to  gratify  his  revenge. 
Dark,  designing  and  revengeful,  he  brooded  over  a  slight  offence 
until  it  was  magnified,  and  he  resorted  to  all  the  underhanded  and 


288  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

secret  means  he  could  invent  to  injure  the  individual  who  was 
so  unfortunate  as  to  offend  him. 

Ezekiel  Freelingham,  the  merchant,  was  precisely  the  reverse. 
He  knew  revenge,  malice,  and  hatred,  only  by  name,  and  instead 
of  wishing  to  injure,  he  was  ever  ready  to  benefit  his  fellow-man, 
and  ever  practised  that  golden  precept,  of  doing  good  for  evil, 
which  act  seems  almost  superhuman.  After  the  last  meeting, 
Rivingston  hated  the  merchant  bitterly.  He  had  never  regarded 
him  warmly,  for  indeed  he  was  one  of  those  nondescripts,  who 
sincerely  love  nobody.  Ezekiel  had  frequently  taken  the  friendly 
liberty  of  telling  him  of  his  glaring  and  egregious  faults,  and  of  ex- 
horting him  to  reform  them,  a  liberty  and  a  crime,  in  his  eyes, 
which  he  never  forgave. 

Rivingston  also  hated  the  just  and  generous  merchant,  as  the 
Athenians,  in  ancient  Greece,  hated  Aristides;  because  he  was 
celebrated  for  his  virtues.  Every  man,  woman  and  child,  in  Wil- 
mington, knew  Ezekiel,  and  so  proverbial  had  he  become  for  his 
many  virtues,  that  every  one,  save  Rivingston,  spoke  of  him  as  the 
good-hearted,  or  the  generous-hearted  merchant.  His  praise  was 
on  every  tongue,  and  many  generous  acts  that  he  had  performed, 
had  become  invested  with  all  the  attributes  of  romance:  many  a 
time  had  Rivingston  sneered,  when  he  listened  to  the  praises 
bestowed  on  the  generous  merchant,  by  some  widow  he  had  as- 
sisted in  distress;  by  some  young  man  he  had  started  in  business; 
or  by  some  person  he  had  rescued  from  ruin. 

"Alas!  I  fear  for  the  fate  of  poor  Charles,"  said  Rachel  Free- 
lingham one  day,  "  though  I  believe  him  innocent,  for  he  would 
not  harm  an  insect." 

"  I  fear  the  worst,"  added  Clara,  as  the  tears  gushed  from  her 
eyes,  ''for  we  have  not  heard  a  word  from  him,  though  he  has  been 
gone  several  months." 

Charles,  in  the  meantime,  had  arrived  at  New  Orleans,  where  he 
was  arraigned  as  a  murderer,  one  of  the  strongest  witnesses  against 
him  being  Henry  Langhorn,  a  former  associate,  who  had  won  a 
great  part  of  his  estate,  at  the  gaming-table.  This  young  man 
produced  in  court  a  cane,  on  the  head  of  which  was  engraved  the 
name  of  Charles  Grandison.  Charles  could  not  but  confess  that 
it  was  his.  He  remembered  to  have  lost  it,  but  knew  not  how. 
The  cane  was  bloody,  and  to  it  was  adhering  human  hair,  which 
was  of  the  same  color  as  that  of  the  murdered  man. 

When  this  evidence  was  brought  before  the  court,  Charles 
trembled,  turned  pale  as  the  sheeted  dead,  and  was  near  falling; 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  289 

for,  though  confident  before  that  no  evidence  could  be  brought 
against  him,  he  now  thought  that  his  fate  was  sealed.  His  powerful 
emotions  were  considered  by  the  court  as  evidences  of  his  guilt; 
and  when  Henry  Langhorn  swore  that  he  saw  Charles  in  the  room 
with  the  man  who  was  murdered,  and  that  he  heard  a  scuffle  and 
blows  and  the  voice  of  Charles,  every  person  was  satisfied  of  his 
guilt,  and  Charles  gave  up  to  despair.  Langhorn  had  been  his 
enemy  ever  since  he  charged  him  with  cheating  him  at  the  gaming- 
table. But  there  was  another  witness,  a  girl  of  equivocal  character, 
whom  Langhorn  brought  against  Charles.  When  she  approached 
the  stand  to  take  the  usual  oath,  she  was  observed  to  turn  pale 
and  tremble.  She  pushed  the  book  away  from  her  and  fainted, 
which  circumstance  threw  the  whole  court  into  excitement  and 
surprise.  When  she  recovered,  she  protested  that  she  could  not 
take  the  oath;  but  she  obstinately  refused,  for  some  time,  to  tell 
the  reason  of  her  repugnance  and  alarm.  After  a  time,  she  con- 
fessed that  she,  and  another,  had  been  bribed  to  perjure  themselves, 
by  swearing  that  Charles  Grandison  had  committed  the  deed.  By 
persuasions  and  threats,  she  revealed  the  fact  that  Langhorn  had 
done  the  deed,  and  that  to  screen  himself  and  gratify  his  revenge, 
he  had  induced  her  to  take  the  cane  of  Charles  from  his  room, 
and  smear  it  with  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man.  Another  person 
was  now  brought  forward  to  testify  to  the  same,  and  it  was  proven 
to  the  astonishment  of  the  whole  court,  that  Charles  was  innocent 
of  any  participation  in  the  murder.  Had  these  two  witnesses  sworn 
as  had  Langhorn,  and  as  he  had  suborned  them,  an  innocent  man 
must  have  suffered  the  penalty,  as  no  doubt  many  have  done. 
Greatly  was  Charles  Grandison  rejoiced,  as  the  reader  may  suppose, 
at  his  miraculous  escape.  Langhorn  was  tried,  and  after  being 
convicted,  confessed  the  crime.  Fearful  of  being  suspected  him- 
self, as  both  he  and  Charles  boarded  in  the  same  hotel  at  the  time 
the  murder  was  committed,  he  had,  by  the  assistance  of  two 
persons  employed  in  the  hotel,  formed  the  plan  of  evidence  related. 
Langhorn,  on  being  in  turn  reduced  to  poverty  at  the  gaming-table, 
as  he  had  reduced  Charles,  resolved  on  committing  the  deed,  as 
the  murdered  man  was  said  to  have  vast  treasure  in  his  possession. 
Charles  having  suddenly  left  the  hotel  and  the  city  of  New  Orleans 
at  the  very  nick  of  time,  gave  probability  to  the  assertion  of  Lang- 
horn  that  he  was  the  murderer,  and  the  production  of  the  cane, 
having  on  it  the  name  of  Charles  Grandison,  and  being  covered 
with  blood  and  hair,  satisfied  every  one  that  he  was  truly  guilly  of 
the  deed,  which  accounted  for  his  sudden  flight. 
37 


290  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Charles  was  again  at  liberty  and  freed  from  every  suspicion,  and 
being  now  piously  inclined,  he  offered  up  his  thanks  to  that  Being 
who  had  saved  him  by  what  almost  appeared  a  miracle.  But  to 
save  himself  had  cost  every  penny  he  possessed,  and  of  course  he 
had  not  the  means  of  returning  to  Clara,  whom  he  had  dearly 
loved,  and  to  whom  he  had  deferred  writing,  that  he  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  imparting  to  her,  with  his  own  lips,  the  joyful  tid- 
ings of  his  triumphant  innocence.  He  considered  it  folly,  not  to 
say  madness,  to  call  on  his  uncle  in  his  distress,  as  they  had  parted 
in  anger,  and  his  uncle's  unforgiving  disposition  he  well  knew. 

One  morning,  while  standing  on  the  hotel  steps  revolving  in 
his  mind  what  to  do,  he  was  startled  by  the  approach  of  a  person, 
habited  in  black,  who  placed  a  note  in  his  hand,  sealed  with  black, 
and  without  saying  a  word  retired.  He  repaired  to  his  room,  and, 
opening  the  note,  discovered  that  his  uncle  was  dead,  and  that  the 
whole  of  his  vast  estate  was  bequeathed  to  charitable  institutions, 
and  to  the  city  corporation.  Charles'  heart  sunk  within  him. 
Then  his  uncle  had  remembered  his  animosity  till  death!  He  had 
always  intended  that  Charles  should  be  his  heir,  until  they  had 
quarreled  and  separated,  and  he  now  grieved  to  think  that  he 
would  be  under  the  necessity  of  seeking  some  kind  of  business 
in  New  Orleans,  until  he  could  realize  enough  money  to  pay  his 
expenses  to  Wilmington. 

After  searching  for  employment  some  time,  he  obtained  a  situ- 
ation in  a  mercantile  establishment,  in  which  he  had  been  busily 
employed  some  months.  He  had  written  to  Clara,  but,  to  his 
surprise  and  mortification,  he  had  received  no  answer.  What 
could  be  the  cause?  Had  she  been  satisfied  of  his  guilt,  and 
repudiated  him  ?  He  could  not  tell.  His  heart  ached  with 
anguish,  more  for  her  neglect,  than  the  loss  of  all  that  his  uncle 
possessed. 

One  day,  while  engaged  in  business,  and  his  mind  was  wander- 
ing far  away  to  Wilmington,  and  the  fair  one  there  for  whom  his 
heart  alone  beat,  a  gentleman  entered  the  store,  and  requested  his 
presence  at  twelve  o'clock,  at  a  certain  number  in  a  certain  street, 
merely  observing  that  he  would  then  and  there  hear  of  something 
greatly  to  his  advantage.  He  could  not  imagine  what  it  could  be, 
it  had  been  so  long  since  his  uncle  died,  and  knowing  that  his 
will  was  adverse  to  him,  he  could  not  suppose  that  it  was  any 
thing  concerning  that,  and  he  was  entirely  at  a  loss. 

Curiosity  made  him  so  punctual  that,  just  as  the  clock  tolled 
twelve,  his  hand  was  on  the  door  bell  at  the  appointed  place. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORO    BARD. 

After  being  ushered  into  a  parlor  of  great  splendor,  by  a  venerable 
gentleman,  and  seated,  the  gentleman  drew  a  parchment  from  his 
desk,  and  said, 

"This,  sir,  is  the  last  will  of  your  uncle,  which  was  found  yes- 
terday, and  which  you  will  find  is  in  your  favor." 

Charles  took  the  will,  and,  in  reading  it,  discovered  that  his 
uncle  had  repented  of  having  cruelly  cut  off  his  nephew  in  his 
former  wills,  and  that  accordingly  he  had  bequeathed  the  whole 
of  his  vast  estate  to  him.  This  will  revoked  the  former  and  all 
preceding  wills,  as  it  bore  a  later  date,  and  was  regularly  signed 
and  witnessed. 

The  joy  of  Charles  at  his  good  fortune  was  great,  as  may  readily 
be  conceived,  not  so  much,  however,  for  the  sake  of  wealth,  as  for 
the  fact  that  it  would  place  him  on  an  equality  with  Clara,  and 
prevent  any  injurious  surmises  that  he  sought  advantage  in  seeking 
an  alliance  with  her.  He,  therefore,  took  the  proper  legal  steps 
preparatory  to  settling  up  the  estate,  and  again  wrote  to  Clara, 
concerning  his  good  fortune.  But  to  this  letter  as  before,  he 
received  no  answer,  and  he  feared  that  death,  or  some  other  great 
misfortune,  was  the  cause. 

Two  years  had  rolled  by  since  he  had  fallen  heir  to  the  estate, 
when  nearly  all  the  business  was  settled,  and  he  began  to  think 
about  going  in  search  of  Clara,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  almost 
three  years.  But  on  the  day  before  that  which  he  had  appointed 
for  his  departure,  he  was  riding  a  splendid  charger,  alone,  on  one 
of  the  roads  in  the  environs  of  New  Orleans,  thinking  of  the 
joyful  hour  in  which  he  should  meet  Clara,  when  his  horse  was 
suddenly  frightened,  and  ran  into  the  city  at  full  speed.  Being 
delicate,  he  was  unable  to  hold  him,  and  as  he  rapidly  wheeled 
round  a  corner,  plunging  at  a  furious  rate,  the  horse  fell  and  threw 
him  over  his  head.  He  fell  against  a  post,  and  was  taken  up  in  a 
state  of  insensibility.  By  this  accident  his  hip  joint  was  dislo- 
cated, his  skull  fractured,  and  he  received  much  injury  besides. 
The  surgeon  was  under  ths  necessity  of  trephining  him,  or  sawing 
out  a  part  of  the  skull,  in  order  to  raise  the  depressed  portion  of 
the  fractured  bone,  which  was  pressing  on  the  brain  and  rendered 
him  insensible.  For  a  long  time  his  recovery  was  doubtful,  and 
several  times  his  physicians  abandoned  him  to  death. 

More  than  a  year  elapsed  ere  he  could  walk  alone,  and  it  was 
between  the  fourth  and  fifth  year  of  his  absence  from  Clara,  when 
he  went  on  board  of  a  brig  bound  to  Philadelphia.  The  sea  breeze 
invigorated  his  frame,  and  he  began  to  rejoice  in  returning  health, 


292  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

and  the  hope  ofconce  more  beholding  his  betrothed  Clara,  after  so 
long  and  painful  an  absence.  But  the  brig  had  been  at  sea  but  a 
few  hours,  when  a  black  looking  vessel  ran  down  upon  her,  which 
the  practiced  eye  of  the  captain  at  oivce  recognized  to  be  a  pirate. 
If  there  was  any  doubt,  it  was  dispelled  in  a  few  minutes  when 
she  hoisted  the  red  flag,  the  symbol  of  blood,  and  then  run  up  a 
black  one  to  denote  that  they  might  expect  no  mercy. 

Charles  had  heard  that  the  motto  of  pirates  was,  "dead  men 
tell  no  tales,"  and  he  shuddered  at  the  horrible  death  that  awaited 
him,  as  he  fancied.  He  bravely  advised  resistance  to  the  last, 
but  tfoe  captain  declared  it  would  be  vain,  as  it  would  be  to 
attempt  to  escape  by  flight,  and  would  effectually  shut  out  all 
chance  for  mercy.  Charles  reasoned  that  if  they  had  to  die,  they 
might  as  well,  and  indeed  had  better  die  fighting,  as  the  horrors 
of  death  would  not  be  so  great  when  in  a  state  of  excitement. 

Still  the  dark  looking  vessel  bore  down  upon  them,  while  an 
awful  stillness  prevailed  on  board  the  brig.  Consternation  pre- 
vailed among  the  crew,  for  there  were  but  few  arms  on  board  and 
they  were  irresolute  whether  to  use  them  or  not,  until  the  frown- 
ing guns  of  the  pirate  came  into  full  view,  when  despair  sat  on 
every  countenance.  The  horrors  of  death  stared  them  in  the  face. 
The  West  India  Islands  were  at  that  time  infested  with  pirates, 
and  the  tales  that  had  been  told,  respecting  the  manner  in  which 
unfortunate  crews  had  perished  by  their  hands,  were  appalling 
Some  had  been  doomed  to  see  the  throats  of  their  comrades  cut, 
one  after  another,  in  their  sight,  until  it  came  to  their  turn  to 
share  the  same  fate;  while  others  had  been  blindfolded  and  made 
to  walk  a  slippery  plank,  from  which  fhey  were  plunged  into 
the  sea. 

When  the  pirates  came  on  board,  the  scene  was  awful  beyond 
description.  The  women  and  children,  who  were  passengers,  fell 
upon  their  knees  before  the  ferocious  looking  chief,  whose  blood 
red  face  was  half  covered  with  a  long  black  beard,  and  with  heart- 
rending cries,  implored  him  to  spare  their  lives.  Every  counte- 
nance bore  the  agonized  expressions  of  despair,  while  these  terrific 
desperadoes,  with  glittering  knives  in  their  hands,  were  searching 
for  money  and  other  valuables.  K* 

Charles  Grandison  shuddered  at  the  fate  that,  in  all  probability, 
awaited  the  unhappy  and  helpless  crew  and  passengers.  But,  to 
the  astonishment  of  all,  the  pirates,  after  having  gathered  all  that 
they  could  find  of  value,  retired  without  inflicting  any  injury, 
which  lenity  they  ascribed  to  the  passive  conduct  of  the  captain 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD.  293 

and  crew  of  the  brig.  They  were  now  as  exquisitely  happy  as 
they  had  been  miserable,  for  we  judge  of,  and  enjoy,  every  thing 
by  contrast.  The  vessel  went  on  her  way  rejoicing. 

Nothing  further  occurred  worthy  of  notice,  during  th^  voyage, 
and  Charles  was  extremely  happy  when  his  straining  eye  first 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Wilmington,  the  very  sight  of  which  recalled 
some  of  the  happiest  moments  of  his  life.  He  gazed  long  and 
wishfully,  while  the  image  of  the  fair  Clara  rose  in  all  its  beauty 
before  his  mental  eye.  But  instantly  the  blissful  vision,  was  dissi- 
pated, by  the  distressing  thought  that  she  might  have  denounced 
and  discarded  him  as  a  guilty  wretch,  and  might  have  be- 
stowed her  affections  upon  another.  He  had  written  to  her  twice, 
and  she  had  not  answered  his  letters.  Might  she  not  have  dismissed 
him  from  her  mind,  as  unworthy,  and  married  another?  Ah! 
there  was  the  cruel  conjecture.  If  she  had  been  true  to  her  vow, 
might  not  the  grief  she  had  endured  have  destroyed  her?  Oh!  He 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  it.  In  the  turmoil  of  business  he  had 
never  had  such  surmises.  But  might  not  one  of  them  prove  true? 

When  Charles  Grandison's  feet  once  more  trod  the  earth,  he 
hastened  to  Wilmington  to  know  the  worst.  But  who  can  im- 
agine his  feelings,  when  on  repairing  to  the  spot  where  once 
stood  the  merchant's  house,  in  the  halls  of  which  he  had  enjoyed 
so  much  unalloyed  happiness,  he  found  a  new  building,  all  traces 
of  the  former  one  having  disappeared.  Where  was  his  friend  and 
his  interesting  family?  He  made  enquiry,  and  was  informed  that 
a  fire  had  consumed  the  old  one,  destroying  the  store-house  of 
Freelingham,  with  all  its  contents,  and  nearly  all  the  furniture  in 
his  house.  He  was  alfc)  informed,  that  his  policy  of  insurance 
had  expired  but  the  day  before  the  fire,  by  which,  the  insurance 
not  having  been  renewed,  he  lost  all.  Charles'  heart  ached  with 
unaffected  sorrow,  and  he  enquired  where  he  might  find  his  gen- 
erous benefactor  and  friend,  and  he  was  referred  for  information 
to  a  person  in  King  street.  He  immediately  called  on  him,  and 
was  told  of  the  misfortune  of  the  fire,  and  that  the  merchant  had 
started  in  business  again  in  the  lower  part  of  the  town,  but  had 
been  unfortunate,  and  that  the  last  he  heard  of  him  was  that,  after 
several  removals  in  Wilmington,  and  having  tried  several  kinds  of 
business,  gradually  getting  worse  and  worse,  being  much  harassed 
by  creditors,  he  had  removed  to  Philadelphia  in  rather  straitened 
circumstances.  He  had  never  heard  from  him  since. 

Charles  listened  to  this  narrative  with  feelings  of  pity  and  pain, 
but  resolved  at  all  hazards  to  find  him,  if  he  could  be  found  on 


294  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  habitable  globe.  Accordingly  he  went  on  board  of  a  packet, 
and  sailed  to  Philadelphia.  For  some  time  he  could  obtain  no 
tidings  of  the  merchant,  but  at  length  a  man  told  him  that  a  young 
lady,  of  the  name  of  Freelingham,  had  kept  a  little  fancy  store  in 
Fourth  street,  to  which  place  he  repaired,  and  was  informed  that 
a  family  of  Friends  had  lived  there,  but  had  removed  down  in 
Southwark.  When  he  called  at  the  place  in  Southwark,  he  was  told 
that  they  were  keeping  a  boarding-house  far  out  Arch  street,  and 
without  delay  he  went  thither,  but  was  informed  that  their  goods 
had  been  sold  for  rent,  and  they  knew  not  whither  they  had  gone, 
though  it  wa*  believed  that  they  had  left  the  city. 

Sad  and  disappointed,  Charles  retired  to  his  lodgings.  But  he 
was  still  determined  to  find  them,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he 
learned  that  Freelingham  was  working  daily  in  a  sugar-house,  and 
in  great  poverty.  He  went  to  the  place  designated,  and  the  first 
man  he  saw  was  his  old  friend  at  hard  work;  but  he  did  not  know  him, 
so  much  was  he  altered  by  distress  of  mind,  loss  of  flesh,  and  the 
humble  garb  he  wore.  Neither  did  the  merchant  know  Charles, 
so  elegantly  was  he  dressed,  and  so  pale  from  the  injury  he  had 
received.  But  a  mutual  recognition  took  place,  and  the  merchant 
related  how  he  had  been  reduced  to  abject  poverty;  how  a  fire 
had  burnt  his  house  and  store;  how  Rivingston  had  conceived  a 
hatred  to  him,  and  had  bought  debts  against  him,  and  prosecuted 
him;  how  he  had  thrown  him  into  prison,  from  which  he  had  been 
rescued  by  the  Friends,  and  how  he  had  struggled  and  toiled  in 
poverty  to  support  his  large  family  of  children. 

"Thee  must  go  home  with  me,  Charles,"  said  the  merchant, 
while  tears  stood  in  both  their  eyes,  "for  though  we  are  now  very 
poor,  and  have  nothing  but  what  we  work  for,  thee  is  welcome 
still  to  what  we  have." 

The  native  kindness  of  the  merchant's  heart  still  shone  forth, 
and  touched  Charles  to  the  soul,  as  he  followed  the  laborer,  who 
had  been  an  independent  merchant,  to  his  humble  abode.  When 
they  entered  the  small  house,  in  a  by-street,  what  a  contrast  did 
it  present  to  their  once  happy  home  in  Wilmington!  The  first 
objects  that  greeted  the  eyes  of  Charles,  were  the  wife  and  daughter 
at  work  in  the  wash-tub.  Clara  instantly  recognized  him,  and 
burst  into  tears;  but  her  mother  did  not  know  him.  Dressed  in 
the  most  ordinary  garb,  they  were  employed  in  washing  for  the 
family,  being  unable  to  employ  washerwomen.  Charles  clasped 
Clara  in  his  arms,  as  he  exclaimed:  "Weep  no  more,  for  the  day 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORP    BARD.  295 

of  your  suffering  is  past.  You  have  been  friends  to  me  in  distress, 
and  I  will  now  be  a  friend  to  you  in  the  hour  of  your  need." 

All  stared,  as  he  drew  from  his  pocket  a  bag  of  gold,  and  counted 
down  the  money  for  the  clothes  and  board  that  he  was  indebted 
for  when  taken  into  the  family,  in  distress. 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  exclaimed  Rachel  Freelingham,  "this 
money  will  pay  our  rent,  which  we  saw  n.o  prospect  of  paying, 
and  will  save  our  few  goods  from  being  sold." 

"One  good  action,"  returned  Charles,  "deserves  another.  You 
assisted  me  when  I  had  not  a  frientLpn  earth,  and  I  am  happy  now 
to  have  it  in  my  power  amply  to  reward  you*  Y?ur  kindness  to 
me  now  brings  you  relief  in  the  hour  of  need,  and  proves  that  we 
do  not  lose  by  doing  a  good  action." 

Happy  was  that  family,  once  more,  when  Charles  informed  them 
of  the  immense  wealth  that  had  fallen  to  him,  and  not  less  happy 
was  Charles,  when  he  learned  from  the  lips  of  Clara  that  she  had 
been  true  to  her  vow,  and  had  never  believed  in  his  guilt.  She 
had  never  received  his  letters,  though  she  had  seen  an  account  in 
the.  papers,  of  the  manner  in  which  his  innocence  had  been 
proved. 

Charles  and  Clara  were  married  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  whole 
family,  at  his  solicitation,  returned  to  Wilmington,  where  he  bought 
the  house  built  upon  the  ruins  of  their  old  residence,  and  started 
the  merchant  in  business  again,  in  which  he  prospered  and  became 
independent.  Clara  no  longer  toiled  over  the  wash-tub,  but  lived 
in  modest  affluence  and  ease. 

Rivingston,  who  had  mainly  contributed  to  ruin  Freelingham, 
became  very  rich  on  the  spoils,  and  went  off  no  one  knew  whither. 
Often  did  the  merchant  speak  of  him  in  pity,  and  say,  that  he  could 
not  always  prosper  in  the  ruin  of  others,  and  that  the  day  would  come 
when  retribution  would  overtake  him.  And  that  day  did  come. 
Many  years  passed  away;  a  family  of  lovely  children  grew  up 
round  Charles,  and  the  merchant  had  grown  old,  and  was  living  in 
happy  independence,  when  one  day,  during  the  period  that  the 
rail  road  from  Baltimore  to  Wilmington  was  being  constructed, 
Ezekiel  Freelingham  was  walking  with  his  grand-son  a  little  way 
out  of  town,  looking  at  the  workmen,  when  he  spoke  to  an  old 
man  who  was  employed  in  hard  labor. 

"I  think  I  have  seen  thee  somewhere,"  said  the  merchant. 

"Very  likely,"  returned  the  laborer  gruffly,  "I've  often  been 
there." 

Ezekiel  looked  at  him  again,  and  said, 


296  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"Thee  favors  a  man  I  knew,  named  Rivingston." 

"That's  my  name,"  returned  the  laborer. 

Ezekiel  started  with  surprise. 

"And  what  could  have  brought  thee  to  labor?  Did  thee  know 
Ezekiel  Freelingham  ?" 

Rivingston  looked  up  and,  recognizing  him,  said, 

"Ah!  yes,  and  my  cruelty  in  ruining  him,  was  what  brought 
me  to  hard  labor.  Many  a  time  have  I  thought  of  your  words, 
that  my  wealth  would  never  do  me  any  good.  From  the  first  it 
proved  a  curse,  and  when  I  invested  it  with  the  best  prospects,  it 
was  sure  to  turn  out  ruinous,  and  thus  speculation  after  speculation 
failed;  I  was  involved  in  debt,  and  was  imprisoned  two  years. 
After  a  series  of  ill-fortune,  you  see  me,  in  my  old  age,  reduced 
to  labor.  All  I  have  is  now  under  execution,  and  unless  I  can 
manage  to  stop  it,  my  family  will  be  turned  out  of  doors,  and  that, 
too,  for  the  paltry  sum  of  forty  dollars." 

The  merchant  thought  of  the  injuries  he  had  received,  at  the 
hands  of  Rivingston,  but  his  generous  feelings  prevailed;  the  rt  still 
small  voice"  whispered,  do  good  for  evil,  and  he  furnished  Rivings- 
ton the  means  to  save  his  family  from  being  driven  from  their 
home.  The  unfeeling  man  was  touched,  and  more  completely 
humbled  than  if  he  had  oppressed  him  in  turn. 

The  merchant  returned  home  to  relate  the  singular  circumstance 
to  his  happy  family,  and  all  agreed  that  though  Rivingston  had 
his  day  of  triumph  in  oppressing  his  neighbor,  yet  far  greater,  in 
doing  good  for  evil,  and  in  relieving  the  oppressed,  had  been  the 
triumph  of  the  generous-hearted  merchant  of  Wilmington. 


$  pilgrimage  JUunfr  tjje  IBorlb, 

LOVE  wandered  one  day  round  the  globe  in  his  glory, 
His  light  airy  chariot  by  doves  was  conveyed; 

His  regalia  and  emblems,  that  'lumine  his  story, 
Around  were  in  beauty  and  brilliance  displayed. 

The  bow  and  the  billet  were  there,  and  the  dart, 

And  the  wreath  round  the  banner  in  beauty  unfurled; 

Transfixed  on  an  arrow  was  seen  a  huge  heart, 

As  a  type  that  love  conquers  and  governs  the  world. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORO    BARD. 


IT  was  a  lovely  night  in  June;  the  air 
Came  sighing  from  the  south,  and  every  breeze 
Breathed  the  rich  breath  of  roses.    Not  a  sound 
Disturbed  the  silent  city;  every  pulse 
Of  life  was  locked  in  slumber,  and  the  moon, 
High  in  her  silvery  chariot,  was  alone 
A  witness  to  the  larceny  of  love. 
The  boudoir  of  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  fair  Ophelia,  opened  to  my  sight 
A  garden  of  fresh  flowers,  and  in  the  midst 
A  centre  table,  scattered  o'er  with  books, 
•  The  tales  of  rich  romance  and  chivalry. 
Beside  it  stood  her  golden  harp,  which  oft 
*       Her  fairy  fingers,  in  the  summer's  eve, 
Had  waked  to  all  the  witchery  of  song, 
In  Lydian  strains,  or  sweeter  lays  of  love. 
On  tiptoe  to  that  paradise  I  crept, 
As  did  the  serpent  steal  into  the  bowers 
Of  Eden,  and  the  bosom  of  fair  Eve; 
But  not  like  him  to  steal  away  the  pearl 
Of  precious  innocence.     The  demon  heart 
That  wins  but  to  betray,  and  tramples  on 
A  pure  and  fond  affection,  is  a  fiend 
That  knows  no  generous  feeling,  and  should  hug 
Hyenas  to  his  breast,  and  never  know 
The  pure  delights  and  luxury  of  love. 

I  stood  in  beauty's  boudoir  gazing  round, 
Intoxicated  with  the  breath  of  flowers, 
And  fixed  by  some  sweet  spell,  like  that  which  holds 
The  spirit  in  delirious  dreams  of  bliss. 
Where  was  the  angel  of  that  Eden  ? — where 
The  gay,  the  graceful,  and  the  fair  Ophelia? 
Oh !  there,  before  me,  on  a  crimson  couch 
Reclined  the  heavenly  creature;  round  her  brow, 
Her  lofty  intellectual  brow,  as  fair 
And  smooth  as  alabaster,  there  was  bound 
A  wreath  of  roses,  emblems  of  her  beauty. 
I  gazed  with  rapture  on  her  graceful  form, 
That  painter's  pencil  and  the  sculptor's  art 
In  vain  might  strive  to  rival;  it  was  small, 
Yet  perfect  in  its  symmetry;  'twas  frail, 
Yet  full;  nay  more,  voluptuously  lovely. 
The  moon,  emerging  from  a  fleecy  cloud, 
Revealed ,  to  my  enraptured  view,  a  face 
As  lovely  as  the  houries  have  in  heaven. 

38 


298  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Oh !  'twas  ecstatic — 'twas  a  face  so  fair, 
So  full  of  love,  and  gentleness,  and  bliss, 
That  fancy  cannot  make  its  image  now, 
Nor  love  forget  its  lineaments;  it  was 
Indeed  a  picture  of  surpassing  beauty. 

Entranced  I  stood  still  gazing  on  the  face 
Of  the  fair  young  Ophelia;  on  her  cheek  -.  » 

The  roses  of  her  sixteenth  summer  bloomed, 
And  her  red  luscious  lip,  ye  gods !  they  were 
Like  two  sweet  slices  of  ripe  watermelon  ! 
A  soft,  sweet  smile  stole  o'er  them,  as  oft  steals 
The  sunlight  o  'er  the  petals  of  a  rose. 
Enraptured  still  I  gazed  upon  her  charms, 
Each  moment  more  enraptured — till  my  soul 
Seemed  spell-bound  by  her  witchery,  as  birds 
Are  fascinated  by  the  serpent's  power,- 
Save  that  her  charm  was  loveliness.     I  stood 
Fixed  like  a  statue,  wnild*my  fluttering  hejljt 
Beat  audibly,  and  every  lading  seemed 
Transfixed  in  form.     Again  she  sweetly  srtrileu, 
And  as  I  snatched  a  burning  kiss,  a  voic<^ 
Loud  as  a  peal  of  thunder,  criedy  beware ! 
Starting  I  woke,  and  found  t 
Gazing  upon  me — I  was  mesmerized. 


tin  i{re  Cottage 


ON  RECEIVING  FROM  HER  A"  WRITTEN  POETIC  EPISTLE. 

WHEN  from  old  ocean's  deep,  by  magic  spell, 
Fair  Venus  rose,  in  all  her  angel  charms  ; 

The  shouting  sea-nymphs  woke  the  silver  shell, 
And  hailed  her  rosy  bloom,  and  polished  arms. 

The  Naiad  train,  attentive  from  the  wave, 
And  every  nymph,  rose  on  the  breezy  air; 

While  the  pleased  goddess  all  her  graces  gave, 
And  shook  the  dew-drops  from  her  waving  hair. 

High  on  the  billowy  surge  she  blew  her  shell, 
Around  her  floating  chariot,  many  a  sound 

Of  glad'ning  triumph,  bade  old  Triton  swell 
His  thund'ring  conch,  and  wake  the  sea-gods  round. 

And  thou,  fair  maid,  if  aught  of  oaten  reed, 
Can  swell  thy  praise,  in  music  more  refined, 

Thou  hast  a  nobler  beauty  —  nobler  meed, 
The  rich,  celestial  beauty  of  the  mind. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  299 

If  the  dark  caves  of  ocean  could  inspire 
The  tuneful  shell  when  love  sprang  up  from  gloom, 

What  great  incentive  to  my  sounding  lyre, 

Must  be  the  charms,  the  pride  of  Ellen's  bloom. 
1       ,V      •' 

Throned  is  expression,  love  and  every  grace, 
»,   In  thy  fair  form,  which  none  can  prize  too  high; 
For; 


i,  as  tho'  she  left  her  native  place, 

:%V^Bhiftes  in  the  lustre  of  thy  beauteous  eye. 

;  ',•  •<    '•'.  '  w 

*"'^-'  ••'*•  '-'A.*  «  .'»•     -•{»»• 

Sweet  as  the  strains  of  wild  ^Eolean  lyre, 

Is  the  dear  song  that  warbles  from  thy  tongue; 
Methinks  almost  thou  caugh'st  from  heaven  the  fire, 
Or  that  empyreaif  choir  had  lofty  sung. 

tMp'^Cu1 

0  for  some  Handel's  soul-inspiring  art, 

That  t.  nu'ght  sing  of  lovj^  and.  virtue  meek; 
Thai  I  might,  paint  the  virtues  of  a  heart, 
Which  ,e,ven  glows  on  Ellen's  crimson  cheek. 

TV,  < 

Some  Grecian  pencil,  with  a  Raphael's  blush, 

Some  Angelo,  with  shades  still  more  refined; 
Might  will  essay  to  picture — but  no  brush 

Can  paint  the  heavenly  beauties  of  thy  mind. 

*  I 
But  0  how  sweet  is  love's  adoring  sigh, 

How  dear  the  modest  blush  on  thy  fair  cheek; 
How  dear  the  dancing  splendor  of  thine  eye, 

Brilliance  that  charms,  and  brilliance  that  can  speak. 
' 

Soft  as  the  zephyr  in  the  vernal  shower, 
Is  the  mild  whisper  of  the  maid  I  love; 

Gentle  as  shadows  in  the  evening  bower,      .-,,<•  , 
Soft  as  the  silver  dew  that  decks  the  grove,  j    t  ^ 

Say,  beauteous  Ellen,  thou  divinely  fair, 
Shall  my  fond  hope  still  live  without  alloy; 

Or  must  the  thrilling  horrors  of  despair, 
Sink  to  my  heart,  and  canker  all  my  joy? 

• 

0  that  were  cruel,  and  blest  Hope  replies — 

She  lives  to  love,  she  knows  no  other  meed; 
Go  read  thy  story  in  her  beaming  eyes, 
Go,  and  permit  not  thy  true  heart  to  bleed. 

1  envy  not  Golconda's  golden  coast, 

Nor  all  the  silver  mines  of  Peru's  store; 

T.-      1        •  .1  1  ,1  1-1 

Rich  in  thy  love,  thou  art  my  highest  boast, 
Rich  in  thy  love,  I  ask — I  wish  no  more. 


'LOOK  upon  the  Bible  as  the  oldest  and  best  of 
[books.  The  history  of  creation  is  said,  by  Strabo, 
i  to  have  been  handed  down  to  the  Egyptians  by 
'a  Chaldean  shepherd;  and  its  superiority  to  all 
jother  books  is  proven  by  the  one  important  cir- 
"cumstance  of  its  influence  in  civilizing  mankind. 
Its  doctrines  are  infinitely  superior  to  those  of 
the  Mahometan  Koran,  and  of  the  Talmud  of 
the  rabbis.  The  Bible  inculcates  universal  char- 
ity, which  word  signifies,  in  the  original,  love. 
To  say  nothing  of  the  glorious  principle  of  love, 
the  laws  which  it  inculcates  are,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  lenient  and  powerful.  Human 
laws  are  founded  upon  them;  but  they  are  like 
the  rays  of  light,  compared  with  the  sources 
from  whence  they  spring.  On  the  sacred  page 
of  the  Bible,  we  find  woman  elevated  to  her  proper  dignity;  but, 
among  those  nations  where  it  is  not  read,  woman  is  the  drudge, 
and  man  the  tyrant. 

The  light  of  learning  and  wisdom  flourishes  where  the  Bible  is 
read;  but  at  its  boundary  commences  the  night  of  darkness  and 
superstition.  It  has  illuminated  the  world  of  literature  and  science, 
and  cast  a  halo  of  glory  around  the  atmosphere  of  intellect.  It 
smiles  on  the  calm  and  sunny  scenes  of  life,  and  gilds  the  evening 
skies  of  the  faithful  in  the  dark  hour  of  death.  What  the  compass 
is  to  the  mariner,  the  Bible  is  to  the  world.  It  teaches  the  king 
in  the  government  of  his  empire,  and  the  peasant  in  the  tilling  of 
his  field.  It  proposes  reward  to  virtue,  and  punishment  to  vice. 
It  interests  equally  the  brilliant  intellect  and  the  humble  capacity. 
All  that  is  good,  grand  and  sublime  is  contained  within  it.  Many 
cannot  relish  it  because  their  taste  is  perverted;  and  many  reject 
it  from  prejudice  and  ignorance  of  its  value.  To  understand  the 
Bible  is  at  once  to  be  introduced  to  a  high  source  of  enjoyment — the 
highest  source  on  earth.  When  I  hear  a  man  exclaiming  against 
the  Bible,  I  cannot  refrain  from  taxing  liis  mind  with  ignorance. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  301 

»  •     -..'. 

If  you  are  a  literary  character,  and  wish  to  behold  elegance, 
perspicuity  and  taste,  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  sacred  book. 
Are  you  pleased  with  poetry?  You  have  at  once  an  inexhaustible 
fountain.  You  have  beautiful  scenery,  sparkling  imagery,  and 
ideas  clothed  in  sublimity  of  language.  It  contains  numerous 
specimens  of  the  angelic  lyre;  and  I  doubt  whether  there  is  such 
a  field  for  the  poet  in  the  world.  The  poet  who  draws  his  scenes 
from  the  Bibl«.  never  can  fail  to  please:  his  writings  are  always 
new.  Are  you  pleased  with  the  thunders  of  eloquence?  Here  is 
another  inexhaustible  source.  Some  passages  of  Scripture  are 
irresistible.  What  can  be  more  grand  and  sublime  than  David's 
description  of  the  appearance  of  the  Most  High?  "  He  bowed 
the  heavens  also,  and  came  down,  and  darkness  was  under  his 
feet:  he  rode  upon  a  cherub,  and  did  fly;  and  he  was  seen  upon 
the  wings  of  the  wind."  Do  you*  ask  for  more  such  passages?  I 
could  quote  a  volume;  but  let  the  description  which  the  prophet 
Habakkuk  gives  of  the  grandeur  of  God  suffice:  "Before  him 
went  the  pestilence,  and  burning  coals  went  forth  at  his  feet;  he 
stood  and  measured  the  earth;  he  beheld  and  drove  asunder  the 
nations:  the  everlasting  mountains  were  scattered ;  the  perpetual 
hills  did  bow  ;  his  ways  are  everlasting." 

It  was  such  eloquence  that  made  Felix  tremble  on  his  throne. 
But  poetry  and  eloquence  are  not  the  onl/beauties  of  the  Bible. 
We  there  find  sound  science  and  philosophy;  there  we  find  history 
the  most  perfect;  and  there,  too,  we  have  the  biography  of  many 
great  and  learned  men.  In  the  Bible  we  have  the  history  of  him 
who  groaned  on  Calvary.  From  that  sacred  summit  a  flood  of 
light  broke  forth  upon  the  world.  It  was  the  dawn  of  redemption! 
Superstition  fled,  affrighted,  before  the  glorious  appearance  of 
Christianity,  and  the  church  of  the  living  God  arose  on  the  ruins 
of  the  heathen  altar.  The  automatons  of  pagan  idolatry  tumbled 
to  the  dust,  and  the  false  deities  perished  on  Olympus.  That 
glorious  gospel,  which  effected  this  great  work,  is  contained  within 
the  Bible.  Like  the  rainbow  which  is  hung  out  in  the  heavens,  it 
was  sent  as  a  token  that  God  would  be  remindful  of  us.  Glorious 
token!  I  rejoice  when  I  read  it;  and  I  would  recommend  it  to 
all  my  fellow-travellers  to  the  grave.  The  waves  of  time  are  rolling 
on  to  sweep  us  away;  and,  as  we  pass  through  the  dark  vale  of 
death,  the  light  of  Calvary  will  illuminate  our  path  to  the  mansions 
above.  Darkness  and  death  are  horrific  to  the  lonely  mind;  but 
the  Bible  will  overcome  those  terrors,  and  infuse  a  calm  serenity 
in  the  darkest  hour  of  existence. 


302  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


HE  stood  before  the  assembled  throng, 

The  glory  of  their  age; 
The  sons  of  science  and  of  song, 

The  heathen,  saint  and  sage. 

Upon  the  grave  of  Greece  he  stood, 

And  held  the  chastening  rod; 
To  preach,  baptized  in  sacred  blood, 

The  Gospel  of  his  God. 

Unawed  in  Athen's   halls  of  fame, 

His  glorious   accents   rung; 
The  temple  trembled  at  the  name 

Of  Jesus,  from  his  tongue. 

The  fanes  of  proud  philosophy 

Were  crumbling  in  his  sight; 
While  o'er  the  world  of  liberty, 

Shone  Bethlem's  star  of  light. 

The  sages  listened  to  the  word, 
By  heathen  hearts  abhorred; 
And  trembled  as  they  leaned  and  heard 

* 

The  glory  of  the  Lord.  jj     ^ 

The  ancient  idol's  hour  had  come, 

To  crumble  and  decay; 
The  Delphic  oracle  was  dumb, 

The  priestess  passed  away. 

A  suffering  Saviour's  love  was  told, 

His  banner  was  unfurled; 
Redemption's  record  was  unrolled 

Around  a  dying  world. 

Where  clouds  upon  Olympus  rise, 

And  rolled  the  thunderer's  tones: 
The  Grecian  gods  forsook  the  skies, 

And  left  their  golden  thrones. 

On  that  benighted  nation  rose, 

More  blest  than  learning's  light; 
The  Star  the  shouting  shepherds  chose 

To  shine  upon  thnir  night. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  303 

Hail!   happy  hour,  when  to  the  world 

The  Gospel  shall  be  given; 
When  vice  shall  be  by  virtue  hurled, 

And  hope  shall  dwell  on  heaven ! 

When  Turk  and  Tartar  shall  atone, 

Before  the  power  above; 
The  ^Ethiop  and  the  Arab  own 

A  Saviour's  lasting  love! 

Hail!  glorious  hour,  when  all  mankind 

Shall  bow  beneath  his  nod; 
And  in  one  faith,  and  with  one  mind, 

Shall  feel  the  grace  of  God. 


THE  young  man,  who  was  the  subject  of  the  following  poetical  lines,  I  knew  when  I 
was  at  the  University,  where  he  was  considered  a  youth  of  splendid  acquirements  and 
brilliant  talents.  He  read  Paine  and  Voltaire,  and,  unfortunately,  imbibed  their  opinions 
and  believed  in  their  annihilating  doctrines.  I  often  remonstrated  with  him,  but,  being 
superior  to  me  in  intellect,  he  laughed  me  to  scorn,  while  he  ridiculed  Christianity,  the 
glory  of  the  world.  Ah !  said  I,  your  doctrine  may  do  to  live  with,  but  it  will  not  do  in 
the  awful  hour  of  death,  when  the  greedy  grave  opens  before  you.  "Should  you  live 
longer  than  I,"  returned  the  young  man,  "  I  will  show  you  how  a  philosopher  can  die ; 
or  as  you  term  me,  a  skeptic."  Poor  fellow !  he  little  thought  that  I  should  live  to  wit- 
ness his  death,  one  of  the  most  horrible  and  heart-rending  scenes  that  I  ever  beheld,  and 
I  sincerely  hope  that  I  may  never  witness"  such  another.  Oh !  his  agonizing  look  is  now 
before  ifls,  and  his  groans  of  penitence  and  terror,  of  hopeless  misery  and  remorse,  still 
grate  in  my  ears !  God  grant,  that  when  the  things  of  life  are  fading  from  my  view,  and 
the  vista  of  the  future  is  opening  before  me,  that  the  sun  of  my  existence  may  go  down 
without  a  cloud,  and  that  I  may  go  to  the  grave  in  the  perfect  faith  of  the  Gospel,  which 
was  instilled  into  my  mind  at  my  pious  and  affectionate  mother's  knee.  God  grant  that  I 
may  never  die  the  death  of  the  Deist,  and  that  I  may  never  know  the  horrors  of  my 
friend  and  fellow-student,  who  became  not  only  a  Deist  but  an  Atheist,  and  who  proved 
the  fact,  that  "  with  the  talents  of  an  angel  a  man  may  be  a  fool." 

I  SAW  him  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 

Ere  he  had  felt  affliction's  rod; 
He  spurned  the  sacred  Book  of  Truth — 

The  glorious  Gospel  of  our  God; 
And  scorned  the  Almighty  Power  above, 

Whose  eye  creation's  scope  may  scan; 
And  read  the  source  of  hate  or  love, 

Within  the  heart  of  thankless  man. 

To  him  a  gracious  God  had  given 

The  gift  of  genius  to  survey 
The  wondrous  works  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Spread  out  in  beautiful  array; 


304  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

But  ah!  Creation,  to  his  sight, 
Was  but  a  wild,  a  rude  romance, 

Sprung  from  the  realms  of  rayless  night, 
By  dark  and  undesigning  chance. 

He  saw  the  charming  season  change, 

And  flowers  bloom  and  blush  for  man; 
But  in  all  nature's  radiant  range, 

The  Mighty  Mind  he  could  not  scan; 
Each  spire  of  grass,  each  being,  born, 

Should  have  convinced  a  mind  so  wise; 
And  yet,  he  even  laughed  to  scorn, 

A  suffering  Saviour's  sacrifice. 

I  saw  the  dying  Deist  roll 

Upon  an  agonizing  bed, 
Dread  horrors  harrowed  up  his  soul, 

His  eyeballs  started  from  his  head; 
With  streaming  eyes,  I  saw  him  stretch 

His  impious  hands  to  heaven  in  prayer; 
"Save!  save!  Oh!  save!"  he  cried,  "a  wretch, 

Whose  soul  is  shrouded  in  despair!" 

Death's  darkest  angel  o'er  him  waved 

His  wings  to  waft  his  soul  away; 
Rolling  upon  his  bed,  he  raved, 

And  wept,  and  prayed  for  one  more  day! 
Philosophy — thou  fool!   say,  where 

Was  now  thy  sweet  consoling  power? 
Where  was  thy  balm  for  his  despair, 

In  dissolution's  awful  hour? 

I  saw  him  gathered  to  the  grave, 

In  Christian  holiness  unborn; 
He  died  cold  skepticism's  slave, 

All  unforgiven  and  forlorn; 
With  genius  worthy  heaven's  abode, 

But  with  a  hopeless  heart  of  pride; 
Rent  by  the  awful  wrath  of  God, 

The  poor  unhappy  Deist  died! 

What  madness  'tis  in  man  to  mar 

The  joys  which  God  has  kindly  given, 
And  blot  out  Bethlehem's  beauteous  star, 

Whose  light  illumes  our  path  to  heaven! 
Tis  vain  to  strive — no  power  may  stay 

The  will  and  pleasure  of  our  Lord ; 
Hell's  deep,  dark  dungeons  must  obey, 

And  heaven  and  earth  receive  his  word. 


0it  mmm  jjapmess. 


ENTER  FRANK  AND  ROBERT,  MEETING. 

OBERT.  '-'Well,  Frank,  do  you  still  persist  in 
your  philosophy  of  human  happiness?" 

Frank-  (putting  his  fingers  to  his  nose  in  a 
quizzical  manner)  "Perhaps  you  mean,  my  dear 
fellow,  my  fool-osophy." 

Robert.  "Right,  Frank,  ha!  ha!  ha!  the  word 
fool-osophy  would  suit  many  doctrines  of  the 
present  day,  as  well  as  your  notion  of  placing 
human  happiness  in  external  things.  I  heard 
you  contend  the  other  day  that  a  poor  man  can- 
not be  happy." 

Frank.   "And   I   still   contend   that   without 
wealth;  without  the  means  of  obtaining  the  luxu- 
ries of  life,  the  sum  of  human  happiness  is  small." 
Robert.  "You    are    wrong,    my   dear   friend. 
True  happiness  dwells  in  the  mind  and  not  in 
extraneous  things.     A  contented  mind  is  always  happy." 

Frank.  "  But  I  tell  you,  Robert,  what  the  world,  or  what  every 
body  says,  must  be  so." 

Robert.  "  There  you  are  wrong  also,  Frank." 
Frank.  "  Explain  yourself,  if  you  please." 
Robert.  "  The  opinions  of  the  world  are  often  fallacious.     For 
example,  if  you  were  to  slay  a  man  you  would  be  denounced  by 
the  world  as  a  murderer ;  while  Napoleon,  who  immolated  a  million 
of  men   on    the    altar  of  his  ambition,  is  held  up  by  the  same 
world"  as  a  great  man." 

Frank.  "  Well,  well,  that  is  an  isolated  case." 
Robert.  "No,  I  will  give  you  another  specimen  of  the  world's 
fool-osophy.  If  T  challenge  you  to  combat,  and  either  of  us  should 
refuse  to  fight,  the  world  would  denounce  him  who  refused  as  a 
coward;  but  should  we  fight  and  one  fall,  the  other  would  be  exe- 
crated as  a  murderer." 

Frank.  "  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  subject?" 
39 


306  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Robert.  "  Nothing  further  than  to  show  you  that  the  world  does 
not  always  judge  correctly  of  right  and  wrong." 

Frank.  "But,  properly  speaking,  is  there  a  right  and  a  wrong? 
May  they  not  each  of  them  be  as  Brutus  said  virtue  was — a  name?" 

Robert.  "No,  my  dear  Frank,  a  rose  by  any  other  name  may 
smell  as  sweet,  as  Shakspeare  has  said ;  but  there  is  as  positive  a 
distinction  between  virtue  and  vice,  or  between  right  and  wrong, 
as  there  is  between  light  and  darkness." 

Frank.  "  Can  you  prove  the  assertion?" 

Robert.  "  I  can.  Did  you  ever  give  a  part  of  your  purse  to  any 
sick  or  suffering  fellow-creature,  who,  by  misfortune,  had  been 
reduced  to  poverty?" 

Frank.  "  I  have." 

Robert.  "  Did  you  not  feel  happy  in  your  mind  thus  to  have  it  in 
your  power  to  relieve  a  fellow-creature?" 

Frank.  "I  did." 

Robert.  "Well,  then,  you  did  what  was  right;  because  a  right 
action  never  leaves  a  sting.  Did  you  ever  disobey  your  parents 
by  not  going  to  Sunday  School,  or  by  breaking  the  Sabbath?" 

Frank,  (hesitates)  "  Well  I " 

Robert.  "  Confess  your  faults  like  an  honest  man." 

Frank.  "  I  have  done  so  in  days  past." 

Robert.  "Did  you  not  feel  wretched  in  having  done  so?" 

Frank.  "  I  did." 

Robert.  "  Well,  then,  you  did  what  was  wrong;  because  a  wrong 
action  ever  makes  us  miserable." 

Frank.  (Smiling)  "Ah,  ha!  I  begin  to  think  you  are  right  in 
that  matter,  and  that  it  is  no  fool-osophy." 
Enter  HENRY,  musing. 

Henry.  "  Well,  well,  after  all  my  struggles,  I  am  the  happiest  dog 
alive.  I  have  won  the  heart,  the  hand,  ay,  and  the  purse,  too,  of  the 
loveliest  in  the  land,  and  declare  myself  the  happiest  dog  alive." 

Robert.  "What,  Henry  about  to  commit  matrimony!" 

Frank,  (putting  his  ringers  to  his  nose)  "  Oh!  no,  he's  not  going 
in  for  matrimony,  but  for  a  matter-of-money,  and  he's  the  happiest 
dog  alive." 

Robert.  "  Let  him  take  care  that  he  does  not  get  a  Tartar." 

Frank.  "  What  need  he  care  if  gets  cream  of  tartar,  so  that  he  has 
plenty  of  that  shining  stuff,  to  which  the  world  pays  its  homage." 

Henry.  "  You're  right,  Frank,  give  me  plenty  of  money,  and 
what  care  I  for  the  world?  I  can  command  every  thing,  and  even 
genius  will  humble  itself  before  me." 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  307 

Robei-t.  "  You  are  wrong,  you  cannot  command  virtue,  without 
which  there  is  no  real  happiness.  A  storm  at  sea,  or  a  fire  at 
night,  may,  in  one  hour,  blast  the  rich  man's  happiness;  while 
that  of  the  poor  man,  who  possesses  a  virtuous  heart,  is  even  by 
death  increased  and  rendered  everlasting.  Did  you  ever  see  a 
pious,  and,  consequently,  a  truly  happy  man  die?" 

Henry.  "  I  have  read  of  the  last  moments  of  Addison,  who  sent 
for  his  infidel  son-in-law  to  come  and  see  how  calmly  and  how 
happy  a  Christian  would  die." 

Robert.  "Yes,  he  was  an  example  of  a  truly  happy  man.  He 
had  lived  a  virtuous  and  happy  life,  and  in  death  he  was  happy. 
Suppose.  Frank,  that  his  happiness  had  been  placed  in  wealth 
alone?  Would  the  presence  of  death  have  increased  it?" 

Frank.  "  Ah,  Robert,  to  be  serious,  I  must  confess  that  you  are 
too  hard  for  me  there." 

Henry.  "  I  believe  I  cannot  answer  that,  either." 

Robert.  "  Well,  my  friends,  in  the  pursuit  of  happiness  we  pur- 
sue the  phantoms  of  life,  as  children  do  butterflies  or  bubbles—- 
their glories  are  gone  the  moment  that  we  grasp  them.  We 
foolishly  think  that  so  much  wealth  or  fame,  or  some  other  bauble, 
would  render  us  completely  happy,  but  the  charm  disappears  the 
moment  we  acquire  it.  And  thus  it  is  with  every  thing  in  life,  but 
virtue." 

Frank.  "  Your  language  carries  conviction  with  it.  I  have 
long  sought  happiness  in  the  bubbles  of  the  world,  and,  as  you 
say,  I  found  they  burst  at  the  moment  I  seized  them." 

Robert.  "And  you  have  felt  an  aching  void  in  your  heart." 

Frank.  "I  have." 

Henry.  "  Well,  Robert,  tell  us  how  we  shall  acquire  that  happi- 
ness which  will  be  lasting." 

Robert.  "Let  the  Bible  be  your  guide;  practice  its  golden  pre- 
cepts; let  virtue  have  possession  of  all  your  heart,  and  never  let 
your  conscience  reproach  you  with  a  dishonorable  or  wicked 
action.  Walk  so  before  God  and  man,  that  the  arrow  of  envy 
shall  fall  harmless  at  your  feet.  Do  unto  others  as  you  would  have 
others  do  to  you,  and  believe  me,  you  will  be  happy  in  this  world, 
and  when  the  dread  summons  shall  come,  you  will  gather  up  your 
feet  and  go  down  to  the  grave  in  peace." 

Frank.  "  But,  my  dear  fellow,  how  is  it  that  many  men,  of  the 
greatest  minds  that  ever  shed  light  upon  the  world  and  dignified 
and  adorned  humanity,  have  been  the  most  skeptical,  and  foremost 
in  repudiating  the  doctrines  which  are  taught  us  in  the  Bible?'*-  M!! 


308  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Robert.  "Ah?  Frank,  in  nine  cases  out  often,  great  men 
become  skeptics  through  pride,  the  pride  of  being  singular.  Look 
at  Voltaire.  His  very  language  breathes  pride.  He  said  that  the 
Christian  religion  required  twelve  men  to  establish  it,  and  he  would 
show  the  world  that  one  man  could  put  it  down.  But  when  death 
stared  him  in  the  face,  how  did  he  die?  Go  read  the  Abbe  Ba- 
ruel's  account  of  it — it  was  horrible  in  the  extreme,  notwithstanding 
the  fact,  that  Mirabeau,  D'Alembert,  Diderot,  and  others,  en- 
deavored to  encourage  him  to  hold  on  to  his  opinions.  Great 
minds  are  often  very  eccentric." 

Henry.  "  But  you  must  recollect,  Robert,  that  all  skeptics  have 
not  died,  as  you  say  Voltaire  died.  Hume,  the  great  historian  of 
England  died-^-I  was.  going  to  say,  like  a  philosopher,  but  he 
did  not — he  died'  playing  cards  and  cracking  jokes,  declaring  to 
the  last,  that  he  was  going  into,  as  he  came  from,  nothing,  and 
that  he  was  resolved  to  enjoy  the  last  moment  of  life." 

Robert.  "  Well,  Henry,  with  men  of  such  prejudiced  minds  as 
that  of  Hume,  there  are  several  things  you  must  consider.  What- 
ever, through  pride  and  obstinacy,  we  wish  to  believe,  we  believe 
readily;  and,  if  it  be  wrong,  we  imbibe  it  without  an  effort.  Mark 
a  child,  how  quick  it  will  catch  any  thing  evil,  and  with  what 
tenacity  it  will  hold  on  to  it.  I  have  known  a  man,  who  was  given 
to  lying,  who  told  a  story  of  two  dogs  that  fought  until  they  ate 
each  other  up  all  but  the  tails,  aud  he  told  it  so  often,  that  he  finally 
and  firmly  believed  that  it  was  a  fact,  and  would  have  been  willing 
to  swear  to  it.  Thus  might  Hume  have  become  wedded  to  the 
doctrine  of  annihilation." 

Henry.  "  May  not  those  who  teach  religious  doctrines  have 
become  wedded  to  them  in  the  same  manner?" 

Robert.  "No,  for  this  reason;  all  nature  cries  aloud  against  the 
doctrine  of  annihilation,  and  is  full  of  proof  that  there  is  a  God, 
from  whom  comes  every  good  and  perfect  gift." 

Frank.  "  What  are  the  proofs?" 

Robert.  "In  the  first  place,  you  know  that  wherever  we  see 
design  we  know  there  is  intelligence;  and  you  need  but  look  at 
your  hand,  to  find  positive  proof  of  a  God.  Man,  with  all  his 
mechanical  genius,  has  never  made  any  thing  so  simple,  that  was 
capable  of  admitting  of  such  a  variety  of  motions.  Every  joint 
in  the  fingers  is  necessary,  and  were  one  finger  taken  away,  the 
hand  would  lose  half  its  usefulness.  Examine  your  hand.  You 
can  pick  up  the  finest  needle;  you  can  wield  that  mighty  instru- 
ment, the  pen;  you  can  bend  a  bow,  fire  a  gun,  play  upon  a 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  309 

musical  instrument,  lift  heavy  weights,  use  all  manner  of  tools, 
and  perform  a  thousand  evolutions,  which  it  would  be  impossible 
to  do  if  the  hand  had  not  been  designed  as  it  is. '  It  is  not  only  a 
proof  of  the  existence  of  a  SUPERIOR  INTELLIGENCE,  but  that  the 
Deity  intended  man  to  erect  the  temple  of  his  renown  and  happi- 
ness. So  long  as  man  follows  the  dictates  of  that  Sublime  Being, 
so  long  is  he  happy." 

Frank.  "Well,  where  are  the  proofs  that  man  will  not  be  anni- 
hilated, when  he  departs  from  this  world?" 

Robert.  <(  They  are  more  numerous  than  the  stars  which  glitter 
in  the  fields  of  space.  Look  around  you,  and  nature  will  reveal 
many  emblems  of  man's  mortality  and  resurrection.  Man  has 
been  denominated  a  worm,  and  the  transformation  of  the-,  cater- 
pillar is  equally  as  strange  as  the  resurrection  of  man.  Take  the 
silkworm,  for  example.  It  comes  forth  into  the  world,  like  man, 
a  tiny,  helpless  worm;  it  feeds,  it  grows;  is  now  sick,  now  well; 
and  as  it  approaches  to  maturity,  it  gives  a  loose  to  its  animal  ap- 
petite and  revels  in  luxury,  like  man.  But,  unlike  man,  it  prepares 
for  the  tomb.  It  lies  in  its  tomb  but  a  short  time,  ere  the  change 
is  effected;  the  tomb,  or  cocoon,  opens,  and  instead  of  a  worm, 
it  comes  forth  a  beautiful  butterfly,  clothed  in  white.  Every  tree, 
every  rose-bush  blooms  and  dies,  and  blooms  again.  Every  thing 
is  undergoing  perpetual  change  and  renewal,  and  why  should  not 
man,  the  noblest  creature  that  God  has  made?" 

Frank.  "  Indeed,  Robert,  I  can  truly  say, '  almost  thou  persuadest 
me  to  be  a  Christian;'  for  I  begin  to  think  that  that  which  never 
did  man  any  harm  must  do  him  good." 

Henry.  "But  stop;  has  not  religion  been  the  cause  of  much 
bloodshed  in  the  world?" 

Robert.  "  There,  my  dear  fellow,  you  make  a  stumbling  block 
that  thousands  of  others  have  made.  The  blood,  you  speak  of, 
was  shed  from  a  mistaken  notion  of  religion.  I  do  not  subscribe 
to  every  doctrine  or  dogma  that  is  taught;  but  there  is  one  thing 
which  cannot  be  denied,  and  that  is,  that  Christianity  has  lessened 
ignorance  and  superstition  ;  it  has  made  society  better,  by  teaching 
men  to  do  good  for  evil,  and  to  do  unto  others  as  they  would  have 
others  to  do  to  them,  instead  of  demanding  an  eye  for  an  eye." 

Frank.  "  Oh!  what  a  glorious  world  this  were,  if  all  men  would 
sincerely  practice  these  precepts!" 

Robert.  "The  really  good  do,  and  if  others  become  heartless 
professors  and  shed  blood,  the  evil  should  not  be  charged  to  the 
good.  I  would  advocate  Christianity  for  its  benefit  in  this  world, 


310  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

if  I  were  certain  there  is  no  hereafter.  Look  at  France,  during 
the  revolution  of  1789,  when  all  piety  was  eschewed,  and  even 
the  Sabbath  abolished!  There  was  an  evidence  of  what  the  evil 
passions  of  men  will  do,  when  unrestrained  by  the  gentle  spirit  of 
Christianity." 

Frank.  "Do  you  not  believe  that  many  doubt  who  profess  to 
believe  in  Christianity?" 

Robert.  "  There  is  not  a  doubt  of  that.  We  all  doubt,  more  or 
less;  for  if  we  fully  and  firmly  believed  that  if  we  were  to  die 
to-night,  our  doom  would  be  misery,  we  should  instantly  strive 
to  avert  the  fate.  Our  happiness  in  this  world,  I  believe,  is  just 
in  proportion  as  we  are  conscious  that  we  are  doing  our  duty 
towards  God  and  man.  We  cannot  be  happy  when  conscience 
is  continually  upbraiding  us  with  not  doing  our  duty.  The  hap- 
piest man  I  have  ever  seen,  was  one  who  appeared  to  be  void  of 
offence  both  towards  God  and  man;  and,  indeed,  how  could  he 
be  else  than  happy ;  for,  when  he  laid  down  at  night,  his  conscience 
approved  his  conduct;  his  spirit  was  calm;  and  he  felt  that  if  he 
should  die  before  morning,  no  evil  could  befall  him." 

Henry.  "  I  believe  you  are  right,  Robert,  for  once  at  an  election 
I  suffered  myself  to  drink  too  much,  and  in  recovering,  never  had  I 
such  horrors  of  mind.  I  wished  myself  dead,  and  yet  feared  to  die." 

Robert.  "  Yes,  you  did  wrong,  and  conscience  inflicted  the 
penalty.  So  you  will  ever  find  that  misery  follows  a  wrong  action, 
while  happiness  is  the  reward  of  a  good  one.  That  law  is  as  fixed 
and  certain  as  any  that  govern  the  motions  of  the  heavenly  bodies, 
and  may  be  demonstrated  with  as  much  certainty  as  any  problem 
in  Euclid." 

Frank.  "  Then,  from  all  you  have  said,  I  should  think  it  best  to 
believe  in  Christianity,  at  all  hazards."  / 

Robert.  "  Certainly,  for  this  reason,  though  it  is  not  original.  If 
you  believe  and  find  nothing  after  death,  you  will  have  nothing  to 
lose;  but  if  you  do  not  believe,  and  should  find  a  reality  beyond 
the  grave,  you  will  have  every  thing  to  lose." 

Henry.  "  That  is  very  true;  but  there  is  one  thing  which  puzzles 
me.  Pray,  how  is  it  that  there  are  so  many  Scriptures  in  the  world, 
besides  our  own?  There  is  the  Talmud,  of  the  Jews;  the  Koran, 
of  the  Turks;  the  Zend  Avesta,  of  the  Persians;  the  Hindoos 
have  their  Scriptures,  and  the' Chinese  have  the  works  of  Confucius, 
which  they  religiously  believe  in." 

Robert.  "Ah!  Henry,  this  is  the  old  cry  of  the  skeptics;  but 
the  nations  you  have  mentioned,  are  very  little  better  or  more 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  311 

enlightened  than  Heathens,  notwithstanding  all  the  flummery 
about  the  Chinese.  No  discovery  can  be  made,  but  immediately 
it  is  said  that  the  Chinese  had  made  the  discovery  centuries  before, 
when  it  is  notorious  that  they  scarcely  know  any  thing  more 
about  science,  than  a  pig  does  about  poetry,  politics,  or  political 
economy.  Barbarians,  who  as  readily  worship  stalks  and  stones  as 
any  thing  else,  may  not  be  presumed  to  be  judges  of  any  doctrine 
that  the  designing  may  impose  upon  them.  Mahomet,  one  of 
the  most  ridiculous  impostors  that  ever  attempted  to  shackle  the 
mind  of  man,  was  under  the  necessity  of  propagating  his  doctrine 
with  the  sword,  the  very  idea  of  which  is  enough  to  condemn  it 
at  once." 

Henry.  "  Robert,  from  what  I  can  understand  of  your  logic,  the 
only  true  source  of  happiness  is  to  do  what  we  believe  to  be  right, 
towards  God  and  man." 

Robert.  "  Yes,  to  carry  a  conscience  void  of  offence.  As  I  said 
before,  if  you  do  a  wrong  act,  you  as  certainly  suffer  for  it  as  that 
you  commit  the  offence." 

Frank.  "  Well,  Robert,  I  think  I  could  do  what  I  think  is  right ; 
but  to  do  good  for  evil  is  a  little  beyond  human  nature.  Pope  says, 
'  whatever  is,  is  right.'  " 

Robert.  "  Yes,  but  he  did  not  mean  in  the  evil  conduct  of  man, 
but  in  the  order  of  Providence — whatever  is,  in  the  glorious  con- 
struction of  the  universe,  is  right.  To  do  good  for  evil,  I  must 
confess,  is  difficult  to  the  heart  in  its  evil  condition ;  but  no  sooner 
does  it  partake  of  the  divine  influence  of  the  grace  of  God,  than 
it  feels  an  inclination  to  forgive  injuries;  to  love  its  neighbor  as 
itself;  and  to  do  good  for  evil.  Indeed,  Frank,  if  you  wish  to 
overcome  your  enemy  and  melt  his  heart  to  kindness,  there  is  no 
readier  way  than  to  do  him  a  good  act  for  an  evil  one.  If  he  has 
the  least  spark  of  generosity,  on  witnessing  your  noble  conduct, 
he  will  grasp  your  hand  in  friendship." 

Henry.  "  Yes,  I  have  witnessed  such  a  scene,  and  never  can 
forget  it.  And  now,  my  friend,  I  believe  with  you,  that  virtue  is 
the  only  true  source  of  happiness,  and  henceforth  I  will  sincerely 
endeavor  to  put  in  practice  the  precepts  you  have  mentioned.  If 
I  but  do  unto  others  as  I  would  have  others  do  unto  me,  I  shall, 
no  doubt,  be  a  happier  man." 

Frank.  "  [  shall  endeavor  to  do  the  same." 

Robert.  "Good!  Stick  to  your  determination,  and  be  assured 
that  you  will  never  regret  the  step  you  have  taken.  Adieu."' 


'312  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 


to  tjj*  Moon. 


EMPRESS  of  night,  sweet  messenger  of  eve, 
Pale  Luna,  thou,  whose  silver  brows  o'erhang 
The  sloping  woodland,  and  the  mountain  stream, 
Thou  full  faced  goddess  from  behind  the  earth; 
Stealing  from  Titan  his  Promethean  fire, 
To  light  thy  lamp,  when  at  the  midnight  hour 
Thou  art  stilj  wheeling  round  this  ponderous  ball, 
Lighting  the  wanderer  on  his  lonesome  way: 
Thy  beauties  now  I  sing.     Think  me  not  vain, 
If  this  my  humble  muse,  essay  to  twine 
One  wreath  of  bays  around  thy  polished  brows, 
What  time  thou  shone  upon  my  evening  path, 
When  I,  a  lover,  wandered  far  from  home, 
Along  the  stream,  nor  dreamt  of  time's  decay, 
Till  down  the  west  thy  airy  path  was  seen 
And  bright  Aurora  shed  her  orange  beami. 
Think  me  not  false,  if  I  could  love  thee  well, 
And  tune  thy  praise  on  this  my  simple  lyre; 
For  oft  hast  thou,  when  all  mankina  was  wrapped 
In  Morpheus'  arms,  strayed  at  the  silent  hour, 
My  sole  companion,  down  the  peaceful  glade; 
And  wnen  mine  eyes  were  weary  of  thy  gaze, 
Thou  wouldst  descend,  and  in  some  Naiad  cave, 
Beneath  the  wave,  1  still  beheld  thy  form. 

0  thou  wilt  ne'er  forsake  poetic  shades!  •   ?^("'i 
For  thou  art  pleased  to  hear  the  tuneful  Nine, 
When  at  the  midnight  hour,  the  echoing  hills 
Resound  with  joy,  the  sweet  romantic  strains. 
And  thou  hast  listened,  when  Siderial  spheres 

All  sang  together,  of  the  wondrous  love 
Of  thy  great  Architect,  the  hand  divine.     , 

1  cannot  talk  like  sage  *hilbsopher, 
And  tell  of  Jupiter  and  his  four  moons, 
Of  Mars  and  Venus,  Saturn  and  his  seven 
Bright  satellites,  wjvicn  constantly  attend; 
Nor  have  I  yet  a  Newton's  eye  to  see 

Ten  thousand  worlds  ml  up  the  realms  of  space — 

Nor  yet  a  Herschel'st  who  with  magic  glance 

Drew  from  obscurity  another  ball, 

And  named  it  Georgium  Sidus.     I  have  not 

The  daring  genius  of  the  Mantuan  bard, 

Nor  of  the  bard  of  Avon,  who  searched  out 

The  deep  recess  of  human  nature,  and 

Explained  the  darkling  subtlety  of  man. 

And   I  have  not  a  Thracian  lyre  to  make 

The  mountains  weep,  nor  one  like  that  of  old, 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  313 

To  bid  the  Theban  dome  descend,  or  snatch 

From  hell  the  tender  lover,  or  subvert 

The  laws  of  nature,  taming  savage  beasts, 

As  told  by  him,  the  Cheronean  sage, 

The  man  of  candor  and  sublimity. 

I  cannot  do  all  this,  nor  yet  can  I 

Belch  out  the  thunder  of  Demosthenes; 

Or  flash  conviction  like  a  Cicero, 

In  eloquence  qf  thunder.     Yet  I  can 

Sing  thy  friendly  nature,  thy  influence  mild; 

How  thou  canst  make  the  tides  obey  thy  will, 

Nor  lash  them  like  vain  Xerxes  did  of  old. 

I  love  thee  for  thy  mild  and  gentle  reign, 

And  much  I  mourn  thy  absence,  when  the  earth, 

Ambitious  like  its  natives,  courts  the  sun, 

Because  a  brighter  object,  and  involves, 

Thy  form  in  night's  eternal  solemn  gloom.  -lt,' 

Fain  would  I  have  thee  like  the  evening  star, 

The  fair-haired  Venus,  spurning  earth's  domain, 

Like  some  coquette  for  ever  shining  gay, 

But  not  lik#  her,  importunate  and  vain. 

Go  lovely  afaon,  go  take  thy  mazy  round, 

And  then  replenish  at  Sol's  burning  shrine, 

To  light  me  on.  jfcy,  way.     Empty  thy  horns, 

And  take,  like  me  at  Helicon,  thy  draught, 

Until  thy  face  no  darkness  shall  present, 

And  then  shall  she,  who  nightly  with  me  roves, 

Hail  thy  return  with  gladness  and  with  joy; 

Till  this  proud  harp  shall  catch  Miltonian  fire, 

And  thou,  and  Ellen,  wake  my  noblest  song. 


LIKE  rainbow  rays,  that  charm  the  gazer's  eye, 
When  the  bright  sun  shines  on  a  darken 'd  sky, 
And  in  a  moment  disappear  from  sight; 
Like  brilliant  meteors,  on  a  moonless  night, 
That  dazzle  for  an  instant  and  decay, 
Leaving  a  deeper  darkness  on  their  way; 
Are  the  vain  hopes  of  man's  ambition  blind, 
That,  dazzling,  die  in  darkness  on  the  mind: 
Too  late  he  finds,  upon  his  lonely  way, 
Like  IGNIS  FATUII,  they  lead  astray; 
Too  late,  alas !  his  soul  is  doom'd  to  find, 
They  were  but  bubbles,  meteors  of  the  mind. 

40 


(fartsjip 


mum 


Or  all  the  ghosts  that  ever  haunted  man, 
Of  all  the  goblins  human  eyes  e'er  scan ; 
Of  all  the  infernal  evil  spirits  curst, 
Sure  ardent  spirits  are  by  far  the  worst. 
Of  all  the  reptiles  that  on  earth  now  are, 
The  dreadful  still-tcorm  is  most  fatal  far ; 
That  serpent's  venom,  there's  no  doubt  of  late, 
Was  in  the  apple  Eve  and  Adam  ate. 


HE  substance,  in  part,  of  this  true  story,  I  ob- 
tained from  my  venerable  friend,  Dr.  John  W. 
Dorsey,  of  Maryland,  and  the  hero  of  it  was  a 
lieutenant  under  the  brave  Commodore  Truxton. 
It  exemplifies  the  influence  of  the  rum  jug,  in 
not  only  blasting  moral  character,  plundering  the 
purse,  destroying  health  and  happiness,  and  in 
the  production  of  crime  and  wretchedness;  but 
in  debarring  men  from  the  accomplishment  of 
designs  which  might  eventuate  in  an  increase  of 
happiness  and  respectability. 

Lieutenant  Granville  belonged  to  the  squadron 
of  Commodore  Truxton,  and  a  braver  man  never 
awoke  the  thunders  of  freedom  on  the  mighty 
deep.  Not  only  did  he  possess  the  animal  qual- 
ity of  bravery,  but  he  was  endowed  with  higher 
attributes  of  the  mind;  he  was  graced  with  talents  that  would  have 
shone  brilliantly  in  the  halls  of  legislation,  or  the  councils  of  his 
country.  Elegantly  educated,  and  having  what  Horace  calls  caco- 
ethes  loquendi,  or  itch  for  talking,  he  would  have  distinguished  him- 
self in  the  forum,  as  well  as  in  the  .field;  in  the  senate,  as  well  as 
on  the  sea. 

But,  alas!  our  hero  contracted  a  love  for  liquor  at  a  very  early 
age.  We  all  remember  the  period  when  the  custom  of  sweeten- 
ing the  morning  dram  was  universal,  and  the  youngest  member  of 
the  family  was  entitled  to  his  share.  It  was  thus,  in  childhood, 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  315 

that  Granville  contracted  the  habit,  which  grew  with  his  growth, 
and  strengthened  with  his  strength.  His  society  was  universally 
courted,  on  account  of  his  droll  ways  and  humorous  pranks,  as 
well  as  his  witty  sayings,  by  which  he  often  "set  the  table  in  a 
roar." 

The  lieutenant  was  not  wealthy,  and  he  often  said  that  the  easi- 
est way  to  acquire  wealth  was  to  bear  down  upon  and  board  some 
rich  craft ;  by  which  he  meant,  to  marry  some  rich  lady.  He  had 
made  several  attempts  at  courtship,  but  had  failed,  on  account  of 
the  unfortunate  habit  to  which  he  was  addicted. 

It  was  the  delight  of  the  officers,  on  board  of  the  ship,  when 
seated  over  a  flowing  can,  at  the  evening  hour,  to  listen  to  the 
stories  of  Lieutenant  Granville's  courtships,  which  were  related  in 
so  quizzical  a  manner,  and  contained  so  many  ludicrous  incidents, 
that  all  hands  were  thrown  into  convulsive  laughter ;  for  he  soon 
collected  a  crowd  around  him. 

"Well,  Granville,"  said  the  Surgeon,  one  evening,  when  a  party 
of  officers  were  seated  together,  on  deck,  "  you  have  never  given 
us  the  history  of  that  courtship  of  yours." 

"Sure  enough,"  returned  Granville,  with  a  quizzical  leer  of  his 
eye,  "  and  a  prettier  or  more  trim  built  craft  I  never  ran  along  side 
of  in  my  life.  Oh !  but  you  had  ought  to  have  seen  her  rigged 
out  in  her  flying  jib  and  spanker,  with  her  streamers  flying,  and 
everything  in  ship-shape;  and  you'd  have  longed  to  come  to,  and 
cast  anchor  along  side,  as  1  did." 

"But  go  on  with  the  story,"  roared  Lieutenant  Bradley. 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  obtained,  from  the  Secretary  of  the  Navy,  a 
furlough  to  go  to  the  East  Indies;  and  when  I  returned  to  Wash- 
ington, I  resolved  to  cruize  about,  in  hopes  I  might  fall  in  with 
some  trim  built  craft,  and  take  her  as  a  prize.  Well,  you  see,  I 
had'nt  cruised  long,  before  I  heard  of  a  rich  young  widow,  who 
lived  about  eight  miles  from  Washington.  Clear  the  deck  for  ac- 
tion, says  I,  I'll  board  her  at  all  hazards.  So  I  hired  a  horse; 
hoisted  sail,  and  how  far  do  you  think  I  got,  the  first  day?" 

"To  the  widow's  house,  of  course,"  answered  the  Surgeon. 

"Deuce  a  bit  of  it.  Three  miles  brought  me  to  the  tavern  sign 
of  General  Washington,  where  I  hove  to;  dropped  anchor;  got 
drunk,  and  staid  all  night.  The  next  morning  I  got  up,  and  piped 
all  hands  to  splice  the  main  brace  ahoy  with  a  little  of  the  Boston 
particular.  Well,  you  see,  when  the  landlord  made  his  appear- 
ance, I  took  a  sneezer — ordered  my  horse — put  out  again ;  and, 
in  less  than  four  miles,  ran  foul  of  another  tavern,  the  sign  of 


316  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

which  was  a  good  woman  without  a  head ;  you  know  all  women 
are  good  without  heads,  or  tongues,  I  should  say.  Here  I  an- 
chored of  course ;  stowed  away  my  breakfast,  and  got  drunk  again ; 
and  there,  you  see,  was  one  drunk  on  top  o'  the  other. — Well, 
you  see,  about  five  o'clock,  I  took  a  fresh  departure  for  the 
widow's,  and  in  a  long  lane  was  thrown  overboard,  by  a  tremend- 
ous surge,  into  the  fence  corner,  where  I  lay  at  anchor  until  morn- 
ing. When  I  awoke,  I  saw  nothing  but  a  chimney;  it  snowed 
all  night;  I  was  covered  about  two  feet,  and  my  breath  formed 
this  chimney." 

"Well,  what  then?"  enquired  one  of  the  officers,  laughing. 

"Why,  after  some  difficulty,  I  regained  my  feet,  and  looking 
round,  I  discovered  a  cabin,  in  an  old  field  hard  by,  and  feeling 
like  a  man  o'  war  after  a  hard  battle,  I  made  sail  and  hauled  into 
port,  where  I  was  admitted  by  the  old  woman  and  her  little 
daughter.  Madam,  said  I,  I  am  a  poor  shipwrecked  mariner.  I 
have  been  hanging  to  some  fence  rails  all  night,  during  the  pelting 
of  the  pitiless  storm,  and  I  beg  of  you  a  blanket  to  roll  myself  in 
before  the  fire,  as  I  am  nearly  frozen  to  death ;  and  if  I  had  a  little 
rum,  it  would  assist  in  thawing  me  the  sooner;  when — great  guns ! 
the  old  woman  said  that  she  never  kept  the  article.  Here  was  a 
broadside  that  made  my  timbers  shiver  again ;  for,  though  I  was 
as  wet  as  a  rat,  I  was  as  dry  as  a  powder-horn.  But  to  my  inex- 
pressible joy,  her  little  daughter  said,  as  she  started  up  from  her 
seat,  'mother,  I  will  go  to  old  Tom  Bowlin's  and  get  some  rum 
for  the  gentleman.' 

"And,  sure  enough,  in  a  short  time,  here  she  came  with  a  jug 
full — God  bless  her! — of  which  I  drank  freely,  and  in  three  hours 
after,  half  seas  over,  put  out  to  sea,  and  steered  for  the  widow's." 

"But  why  didn't  you  carry  your  liquor  on  board,"  enquired  a 
midshipman,  "as  you  were  so  often  on  short  allowance?" 

"May  be  I  did.  I  saw,  in  the  old  woman's  cupboard,  one  of 
these  thin  eight  ounce  medicine  phials ;  so  I  bought  it  of  her,  and 
filled  it  with  the  Boston  particular,  by  way  of  keeping  my  spirits 
up,  when  popping  the  question  to  the  widow ;  for  I  didn't  expect 
to  get  any  there,  and  it  wouldn't  do  even  to  mention  rum." 

"  Well,  go  on  with  the  story."  said  the  Surgeon,  "  you  got 
there  ?" 

"  Yes,  with  the  phial  of  rum  in  my  pocket,  I  dropped  anchor, 
after  being  politely  towed  into  the  parlor  by  the  fair  young  widow. 
Oh  !  but  how  it  would  have  made  your  mouths  water,  just  to  have 
seen  that  trim  built  craft,  with  her  curly  streamers  aflying,  and  her 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  317 

two  bright  port  holes  flashing  fire  at  you  at  every  glance !  The 
very  first  broadside  from  her  eyes,  shivered  my  heart  to  atoms." 

"  Go  on,  go  on,"  said  several  voices. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I  was  about  half  seas  over,  three  sheets 
in  the  wind  and  the  oUier  shaking,  and  I  couldn't  have  walked  a 
plank  to  save  my  soul.  My  tongue  was  so  thick,  that  I  couldn't 
have  spoken  the  words,  three  thin  saplings,  if  my  life  had  been 
forfeited,  and  to  hide  matters  from  my  charmer,  I  took  hold  of  the 
chairs  and  tables,  when  I  moved  about.  After  getting  thoroughly 
thawed,  I  cleared  the  deck  for  action,  and  made  preparation  for 
popping  the  awful  question.  I  had  to  keep  a  look  out  that  I  didn't 
break  the  bottle  in  my  pocket,  for  I  knew  that  if  I  got  a  lee  lurch, 
the  bottle  might  go  by  the  board  and  betray  me.  This  I  dreaded; 
for  I  was  getting  on  swimmingly.  So  I  watched  my  opportunity; 
rose  up  gently  see-sawing,  like  a  ship  in  the  trough  of  the  sea, 
and  held  on  to  the  back  part  of  the  chair. 

"Madam — madam,"  said  I,  "having  heard  of  your  fame;  good- 
ness of  heart;  and  above  all,  your  bank  stock — I — I  mean  your 
beauty;  I  have  visited  you  for  the  purpose  of  asking  you  whether 
you  would  accept  of  one  of  Commodore  Trux — hie — Trux — hie 
— one  of  Commodore  Truxton's  Lieutenants,  as  a  companion 
for  life  ?" 

""Well,  what  do  you  think  I  got?" 

"Why,  she  struck  her  colors,  of  course,  and  surrendered," 
answered  a  midshipman,  with  a  horse-laugh. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  got.  I  got  a  flat,  without  a  paddle  to  steer 
home  with." 

"  What  then  ?"  enquired  the  Surgeon,  as  all  hands  burst  into  a 
loud  roar  of  laughter. 

"Well,  I  followed  the  advice  of  the  brave  Lawrence,  and  didn't 
give  up  the  ship.  But  dang  it,  what  a  blunder  I  made  with  her 
bank  stock !  She  smiled  and  simpered,  and  invited  me  to  dinner. 
Thinks  I,  my  honey,  I'll  give  you  another  broadside,  before  I  sur- 
render. So  when  she  went  out  to  tell  the  servant  to  bring  in 
dinner,  I  whipt  the  eight  ounce  £hial  out  of  my  pocket,  and  took 
a  little  comfort;  but,  by  the  hickory  spoons,  she  came  near  catch- 
in<r  me  in  the  act." 

O  "••>..?.  I     • 

"But  the  dinner,  the  dinner;  give  us  the  dinner,"  roared  out 
one  of  the  officers. 

"  Well,  you  see,  another  drink  made  me  glorious ;  and,  as  good 
luck  would  have  it,  there  wasn't  a  soul  at  the  table  but  her  lady- 
ship and  your  humble  servant;  so  I  had  a  first-rate  opportunity  to 


318  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

pop  the  question  again.  But  I  thought  I  would  flourish  awhile, 
by  way  of  coaxing  her  over;  for  young  widows  are  wonderfully 
susceptible  to  the  tender  passion,  and  the  last  drink  had  made  me 
quite  eloquent,  save  that  my  tongue  was  rather  thick,  and  an 
occasional  hiccup  spoiled  some  of  my  most  sublime  efforts. 

"Madam,"  said  I,  giving  her  what  I  thought  a  soul-searching 
glance,  though  no  doubt  my  eyes  were  red  and  sleepy, — "Madam, 
this  fork  I  hold  in  my  hand,  is  not  more  firmly  planted  in  the 
breast  of  this  chicken,  than  is  the  dart  of  love,  shot  from  your 
beau — beau — hie — beautiful  eyes,  fixed  in  my  heart." 

She  smiled  bewitchingly,  and  encouraged,  I  proceeded: 

"Dearest  Madam,  there  is  nothing  I  prize  so  highly  as  your 
bank — I  mean  your  beauty;  and  if  there  is  anything  I  admire 
more  than  your  pers — pers — personal  charms,  it  is  your  money. 
I  beg  pardon,  I  mean  your  mental  per — per — per — what  was  I 
saying,  madam  ? 

"The  widow  roared  out  in  a  horse-laugh,  and  I  was  so  con- 
fused that,  seizing  one  leg  of  the  chicken  with  my  fingers,  I  sunk 
down  in  my  chair,  and  commenced  tearing  it  with  my 'teeth  like  a 
hungry  wolf;  and  the  truth  was,  I  had  eaten  nothing  since  the 
day  before.  I  fell  into  a  perfect  reverie,  on  the  ill  effects  of  drink- 
ing rum,  and  when  the  widow  spoke,  I  started  as  if  there  had  been 
a  sudden  clap  of  thunder;  upset  my  plate,  with  two  soft  eggs  on 
it,  into  my  lap,  over  which  my  handkerchief  was  spread.  To 
avoid  confusion,  I  rolled  up  the  handkerchief,  with  the  soft  eggs 
in  it,  and  stowed  it  away  in  my  pocket.  The  plate  fell  to  the 
floor,  and,  striking  on  its  edge,  rolled  clear  round  the  table  into 
the  fire.  This  was  too  much  for  the  gravity  of  the  widow,  and 
she  broke  out  into  another  horse-laugh." 

"Well,  how  did  you  get  on  after  that?"  asked  the  Surgeon. 

"Bad  enough,  I  tell  you.  It  seemed  as  if  everything  con- 
spired against  me.  After  my  confusion  was  somewhat  over,  I 
again  launched  forth  into  praises  of  her  beauty,  preparatory  to 
popping  the  question  a  secoYid  time.  Seeing  that  her  plate  was 
empty,  I  rose  up  to  help  her  to  another  part  of  the  chicken,  when 
getting  a  lee  lurch,  I  attempted  to  lay  hold  of  the  table,  but  missing 
it,  I  grasped  the  table-cloth,  and  should  have  fallen  sprawling  in  the 
floor,  besides  dragging  everything  from  the  table,  had  not  the  ser"- 
vant,  a  large,  fat  colored  woman,  who  had  just  come  in,  catight 
me  in  her  arms.  T  shuddered,  for  had  I  fallen,  I  should  have  in- 
evitably broken  the  bottle  in  my  pocket." 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  319 

"Capital!  Excellent!  Well  done!"  cried  several,  while  an- 
other loud  laugh  arose  from  the  amused  officers. 

"Go  on,  Granville,"  said  the  Surgeon,  "the  denouement  will 
be  rich,  I've  no  doubt." 

"It  may  be  rich  to  you,"  continued  Granville,  "but  it  was  poor 
fun  to  me,  for  so  confused  was  I,  that  I  staggered  across  the  room ; 
sunk  down  on  one  of  these  cane-bottom  chairs,  and  my  coat-tail 
being  under  me — Oh !  decanters,  I  broke  to  smash  the  frail  bottle 
in  my  pocket,  and  the  liquor  went  trickling  down,  through  the 
bottom  of  the  chair,  to  the  floor.  This  was  more  than  I  could 
bear,  and  my  eyes  glared  upon  the  confused  widow  as  if  she  had 
been  a  ghost,  while  the  servant  stood  tittering  at  my  dilemma.  I 
would  rather  have  faced  British  cannon  at  that  moment,  for  I  knew 
not  what  to  do,  or  what  to  say.  But  my  calamities  were  not  at  an 
end,  for  to  clap  the  climax,  and  hide  my  confusion,  I  drew  out  the 
handkerchief,  forgetful  of  what  had  occurred,  and  applied  it  to  my 
face.  Oh !  Jupiter,  the  first  slap  filled  my  eyes,  and  bedaubed  my 
face  all  over  with  the  yolks  of  the  eggs,  and  such  a  looking  object 
never  appeared  before  a  lady  to  pop  the  question.  The  widow 
rushed,  laughing,  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  fat  servant, 
who  ever  and  anon  turned  round,  rolled  up  the  whites  of  her  eyes, 
and  shook  her  sides  with  laughter  at  my  truly  ludicrous  and  ridi- 
culous appearance." 

"Well,  how  did  you  come  out  in  the  end?"  enquired  the  Sur- 
geon. 

"  How  did  I  come  out?  Why,  I  came  out  at  the  little  end  of 
the  horn,  as  the  saying  is.  I  weighed  anchor,  and  put  out  to  sea 
as  quick  as  my  legs  would  let  me;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  I 
have  never  been  on  a  courting  cruize,  and  whenever  I  see  a  young 
widow,  I  can't  help  thinking  of  soft  eggs  and  broken  rum  jugs. 
From  this  time,  to  all  eternity,  my  advice  is,  to  young  men  who 
wish  to  court  either  a  young  spinster  or  a  widow,  to  let  the  rum 
jug  alone ;  for  I  have  no  doubt  that  if  I  had  gone  a  sober  man  to 
see  the  widow,  I  might  now  be  living  in  a  fine  house,  and  riding 
in  a  coach  and  four." 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  Lieutenant's  story,  the  officers  pulled 
off  their  hats  and  gave  three  cheers  for  the  courtship ;  which  was 
followed  by  a  long,  loud  roar  of  laughter. 


320  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 


Catji^ral  3WI,  Stoltimor*. 


Heard  at  a  distance  on  Sunday  evening,  while  meditating  on  a  tomb,  alone,  in  a 

Catholic  burial  ground. 
•  •  •'.„.'''  '. 

\ 
How  sweetly  sounds  that  evening  bell?  how  soothing  is  its  toll? 

It  comes  like  mellow  music  on  the  meditating  soul; 

It  speaks,  as  with  a  tongue  from  heaven,  to  every  heart  of  care, 

And,  like  an  angel  whispering,  it  calls  the  soul  to  prayer.v 

It  speaks  of  Him  who  loved  the  world,  of  Him  who  deigned  to  give 
His  blessed  Son  to  die,  that  man  —  ungrateful  man  —  might  livej 
That  glorious  Son,  who  to  mankind  his  gospel  page  unfurled, 
And  hung  redemption's  rainbow  round  a  dark  and  dying  world. 

0  thou,  most  holy,  heavenly  church!  at  whose  all-sacred  shrine 
The  God  of  heaven,  in  truth,  pronounced  devoted  and  divine, 
What  millions  in  all  ages  since  have  at  thy  altar  knelt, 
And  all  the  luxuries  of  faith,  of  hope,  and  love  have  felt  ! 

The  infidel  in  vain  may  strike;  in  vain  the  fool  may  mock; 
In  vain  all  opposition,  too:  'tis  built  upon  a  rock; 
"The  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail  "  against  its  holy  name; 
When  ages,  yet  unknown,  have  passed,  the  church  will  stand  the  game. 

**-•,*"         *•'  •  ' 

Prom  age  to  age,  alas!  the  church  has  been  severely  used, 
By  persecution  butchered,  and  by  bigotry  abused: 
But  still  she  sends  out  from  the  ark  of  peace  the  gentle  dove, 
And  holds  out  to  the  world  around  the  olive  leaf  of  love. 

Ah!  would  that  all  mankind  were  thus  inclined  to  live  in  peace! 
The  heart  would  be  a  heaven  on  earth,  the  storms  of  strife  would  cease; 
The  dagger  would  no  longer  drink  the  guiltless  victim's  gore, 
And  every  man  would  go  in  peace,  ay,  go  and  sin  no  more. 

O  happy  day!  it  were,  indeed;  the  angels  high  in  heaven 
Would  tune  their  harps  of  gold,  and  sing  the  truce  of  mercy  given; 
But  man,  because  he  will  not  join  the  holy  church  of  God, 
Gives  vent  to  vengeance,  and  uplifts  fell  persecution  's  rod. 

Her  doors  are  open  unto  all;  the  tree  of  life  is  there, 

And  every  one  may  of  the  fruit  in  rich  abundance  share; 

Come,  one  and  all,  a  mother  she  will  ever  truly  prove, 

Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  her  paths  are  peace  and  love. 


'•**  ' 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  321 

Sweet  bell,  thy  tongue  in  mournful  tones  speaks  to  my  silent  heart, 
And  bids  me  to  prepare,  for  soon  I  must  from  earth  depart; 
And  lie  down  in  the  grave  alone,  like  him  who  slumbers  here, 
And  who,  like  me,  could  once  in  life  thy  mellow  music  hear. 

I    I  love  to  muse,  at  evening  hour,  when  thou  art  sounding  far, 
And,  whrle  1  listen,  gaze  upon  yon  bright  and  blessed  star; 
And  think  of  all  the  happy  host  that  dwell,  ye  dead,  with  you, 
Beyond  the  starry  skies  above — sweet  evening  bell,  adieu! 
\'    f 


\wltu  of  Cjjariti], 

ANGELS  of  earth  sent  down  from  heaven, 

To  wipe  away  the  mourner's  tear; 
Sweet  ministers  of  mercy,  given 

To  sqothe  afflicted  mortals  here; 
Ttf  lessen  human  misery, 

And  to  obey  our  blessed  Lord; 
Ye  are  devoted,  yet  are  free, 

And  angels'  smiles  are  your  reward. 

Ye  do  renounce  the  earth,  and  all 
Its  Siren  pleasures  that  betray; 

And  at  your  Saviour's  feet  ye  fall, 
k  And  humbly  and  devoutly  pray 

That  He  may  give  ye  strength  to  bless 
The  sick,  and  in  his  footsteps  move; 

Thus  imitating,  in  distress, 

His  heavenly  mercy  and  his  love. 

Ye  seek  not  wealth,  ye  seek  not  fame, 

The^r  are  a  bubble  and  a  breath; 
Ye  seek  a  home  in  heaven,  a  name 

With  angels,  in  the  hour  of  death; 
To  helpless  man  ye  comfort  give, 

And  smooth  his  pathway  to  the  sky, 
In  virtue's  path  ye  calmly  live, 

To  learn  the  lesson  how  to  die. 

Like  him  who  had  in  Bethlehem  birth, 

And  sin  and  sorrow  nobly  hurled; 
Who  hung  a  rainbow  round  the  earth, 

And  saved  from  death  a  sinking  world; 
Children  of  charity,  ye  seek 

The  sick  and  suffering  without  price, 
Ye  measure  mercy  to  the  meek, 

And  oft  from  ruin  rescue  vice. 
41 


322  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Methinks  the  heavenly  harps  on  high 

Will  welcome  you,  and  crowns  be  given, 
When  ye  shall  seek  your  home  on  high, 

Even  at  the  golden  gates  of  heaven: 
Methinks  the  angels  blest  above* 

Will  meet  ye  with  a  smile  and  nod; 
And  lead  ye  by  the  cords  of  love, 

To  the  bright  garden  of  our  God. 

Oh!  in  that  land  among  the  blest, 

Where  none  may  shed  affliction's  tears; 
Earth's  angels  will  find  glorious  rest, 

Amid  the  march  of  endless  years; 
When  suns  shall  sink  and  stars  consume, 

And  skies  shall  pass  away  above; 
You,  still  triumphant  o'er  the  tomb, 

Will  dwell  in  yonder  land  of  love. 


OH  !  where  are  the  friends  whom  in  childhood  I  cherished, 

The  good  and  the  graceful — the  gifted  and  brave  ? 
Alas !  in  a  cold  world  they  pined  and  have  perished, 

Unpitied  they  sleep  in  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 

J 
Or  far  in  a  foreign  land  lonely  they  wander, 

Unblest  by  the  bosoms  that  beat  for  them  here; 
Perhaps  on  the  years  that  are  passed  they  now  ponder, 
And  drop  the  sweet  tribute  of  memory's  tear. 

Alas !  when  I  look  on  the  scenes  long  departed, 

And  think  of  the  friends  that  so  fondly  I  proved, 
Like  Logan,  a  moment  I  mourn  broken-hearted, 

Alone  in  the  world,  stripped  of  all  that  I  loved. 

Oh !  the  home  of  my  heart,  and  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

I  long  to  revisit,  and  love  to  recall, 
The  village  and  valley,  the  grove  and  the  wildwood, 

The  friends  and  the  fireside  loved  more  than  all. 

But  why  should  I  weep  o'er  the  friends  I  have  cherished  ? 

Or  sigh  o'er  the  scenes  that  once  happiness  gave? 
A  few  fleeting  years,  and  I  too  shall  have  perished, 

And  sleep  with  them  all  in  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  323 


on  tfje  Deatjj  of  Isabella, 


DAUGHTER  OF  JAMES  AND  ELLEN  TERRY. 


ON  Sunday  she  was  the  pride  of  her  father,  and  the  joy  of  her  mother's  heart.  On 
Monday  the  cheek  which  had  glowed  with  health  the  day  before,  was  blanched — she  wa« 
dead  !  At  that  most  interesting  period  of  childhood,  when  the  tongue  is  just  learning  to 
lisp  the  endearing  names  of  father  and  mother,  Death  aimed  his  dart;  and,  in  a  few  hours, 
the  music  of  that  little  prattling  tongue  was  hushed  forever.  Gone,  forever,  were  all  the 
bright  anticipations  of  those  who  idolized  her ;  and  oh !  how  sickening  is  the  thought  that 
all  we  love  is  thus  mutable  and  transitory?  To-day  we  are  happy  in  the  possession  of  all 
that  can  render  life  desirable— the  next  day  we  are  called  to  mourn  over  the  desolation  of 
our  homes,  and  the  ruin  of  all  our  high  built  hopes  and  holiest  affections.  Oh!  how 
many  a  heart  has  thus  bled  in  anguish,  when  returning  to  their  desolate  hornet  from  the 
grave,  which  had  just  closed  over  all  they  held  dear  on  earth?  But  for  those  bruised  and 
bleeding  hearts  there  is  one  consolation,  and  only  one.  ft  is  the  ever-during  hope  of  meet- 
ing the  loved  and  lost  at  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven,  and  of  dwelling  together  in  the  gar- 
den of  God,  where  parting  is  no  more. 

OH  !  if  there  is  a  scene  below  the  skies, 

At  which  the  angels  weep,  it  is  to  see 
A  mother's  anguish,  when  her  infant  dies; 

For  there's  no  measure  to  her  misery. 

To-day,  methinks  I  see  her,  with  her  child, 

BJpqming  in  beauty,  in  her  blissful  arms; 
To'lRorrow,  in  distraction,  wan  and  wild, 

She  gazes  on  her  pale  and  lifeless  charms; 

Or  round  her  dying  couch  she  fondly  flies, 

Calling  on  Heav'n  her  heart's  best  hope  to  save; 

Each  little  art,  alas !  in  vain  she  tries, 
Then  shrieks,  and  yields  her  darling  to  the  grave. 

Wildly  she  marks  the  last,  long,  lingering  breath, 
And  the  deep  tides  of  anguish,  gushing,  roll; 

Oh !  mournful  is  that  moment  we  call  death! 
How  does  it  harrow  up  a  parent's  soul? 

Methinks  I  see  the  sad  funereal  train, 

Moving,  in  solemn  silence,  to  the  tomb; 
The  bleeding  heart's  deep  sigh  I  hear  again, 

Mourning,  in  deepest  grief,  a  daughter's  doom. 

Oh  !  if  there  is  a  moment  that  e'er  gave 

A  chastening  feeling  to  the  heart,  it  must 
Have  been  when  standing  by  the  solemn  grave, 

To  see  our  friends  go  down  to  death  and  dust ! 


324  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

Ah !  what  a  desolating  feeling  came 

O'er  these  sad  parents,  when  they  home  return 'd? 
No  little  daughtej;  lisp'd  the  much  lov'd  name 

Of  Father,  or  of  Mother — silence  mourn 'd! 

In  the  lone  chamber,  where  her  merry  voice, 
But  yesterday,  was  heard  with  heart-felt  bliss; 

She  comes  no  more,  to  bid  those  hearts  rejoice, 
And  climb  the  knee  to  ask  a  parent's  kiss. 

Her  little  footstep  in  the  hall  is  mute, 

Her  tongue  the  ear,  on  earth,  no  more  shall  greet; 

Oh!  more  than  lay  of  minstrel's  love-lorn  lute, 
Was  to  that  mother's  ear  its  music  sweet! 

Angels  have  borne  her  to  the  bowers  of  bliss, 
A  happy  home,  not  made  with  hands,  above; 

Oh !  may  her  parents  here  prepare  in  this, 
To  meet  her  in  yon  land  of  light  and  love ! 

To  part  with  those  we  love,  is  keenest  pain, 
But  here  those  days  of  grief  will  soon  be  o'er; 

And  oh !  what  joy  to  meet  that  child  again, 

Where  none  may  weep,  and  parting  is  no  more ! 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  ALBUM  OF  A  LADY  IN  NEW  JERSEY. 

OH!  I  have  sat,  at  midnight's  solemn  hour, 
Musing  Upon  the  glittering  globes,  that  hang, 
Like  lamps  suspended  in  the  hall  of  heaven; 
And  while,  in  contemplation,  I  surveyed 
The  starry  host,  that  wheel  their  ceaseless  flight 
With  regular  precision,  I  have  mused; 
Ay,  meditated  on  the  wondrous  power — 
The  grandeur  and  the  glory  of  a  God, 
Who  is  of  suns  and  systems,  and  of  all 
Created  things,  the  centre  and  the  soul, 
Till  my  wrapt  soul  was  lost  in  deep  amaze. 

When  to  my  mind  the  mighty  Jhought  came  in, 
That  every  star,  that  twinkled,  was  a  sun, 
Round  which  a  system  of  huge  planets  moved, 
Millions  of  miles  apart — and  when  I  thought 
That  the  same  God  made  me;  ay,  as  I  am, 
An  insect  in  Creation's  mighty  plan; 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  325 

I  wonder 'd,  while  I  worship'd,  at  the  Power, 

That  is  as  evident  ev'n  in  a  plant, 

As  in  a  planet;  and  as  glorious,  tof>, 

In  the  frail  structure  of  the  worm  we  crush, 

As  in  the  wondrous  fabric  of  a  world. 

Oh!  I  have  started,  when  upon  myself 
I  turned  my  mental  eye;  and  strange  thoughts  came, 
In  contemplating  that  immortal  part 
Of  man,  the  mind,  to  matter  chain'd,  till  death 
Comes,  like  a  friend;  unbars  the  dungeon  door, 
And  sets  the  captive  free.    Why  do  we  start, 
And  tremble  at  his  coming?    To  die — it  is 
As  natural  as  birth;  'tis  necessary 
That  we  give  place  to  others,  who  come  in 
This  breathing  world,  which  our  forefathers  gave 
To  us.     Then  why  the  awful  fear  of  death  ? 
Ah!   'tis  that  dreadful  consciousness  within, 
That  we  have  not  fulfill 'd  the  destiny 
Which  God  intended;  that  we  are  unfit 
To  enter  at  the  golden  gates  of  Heaven; 
And  that  we've  spurn 'd  the  off 'ring  of  that  One, 
Who  hung  the  rainbow  of  Redemption  round 
A  dark  and  dying  world. 

Death  is  no  bugbear  to  the  soul  sublime, 
That,  freed  from  human  error,  walks  the  ways 
Of  innocence  and  virtue.    To  him  the  grave 
Hath  lost  its  victory — death  hath  no  sting. 
When  comes  the  summons,  he  with  joy  obeys; 
And,  like  the  setting  sun,  he  leaves  behind 
His  golden  virtues,  to  adorn  the  earth; 
While  his  immortal  spirit  is  removed, 
From  this  cold  world  to  the  garden  of  his  God. 


pmlj  of 


The  Indian  Chief  whose  wife  and  children  were  murdered  by  the  Americans  as  they 
approached  the  shore  in  a  canoe. 

THESE  hands  have  shad  the  blood  of  many  a  foe, 
And  laid  in  death  the  bleeding  warrior  low; 
These  hands  still  reek  with  noblest  British  blood, 
Shed  o'er  these  plains  in  many  a  rubric  flood; 
Columbia's  cause  has  led  me  forth  to  war, 
For  her  I  mounted  on  the  sanguine  car; 
For  fair  Columbia  and  her  warlike  sires, 
I  snatched  the  torch  and  lit  funereal  fires; 


326  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

For  her  I  bade  the  streams  of  vengeance  flow, 

Piled  up  the  dead  in  heaps  of  slaughter 'd  woe; 

Led  on  the  raises  to  gain  the  victor's  prize, 

While  many  a  ghost  fled  blood-stain 'd  to  the  skies. 

Bade  all  around  vindictive  fury  roar, 

Till  bleeding  heroes  coyer'd  all  the  shore. 

And  now  where  is  that  bright  reward  of  fame, 

Which  every  chief  demands  to  grace  his  name; 

Where  is  that  meed  which  heroes  must  allow 

To  grace  the  bold  victorious  hero's  brow? 

Alas !  see  there  beside  the  sounding  main, 

My  wife  and  all  n\y  Uelplesfe  children  slain! 

With  bleeding  breasts  they  stain  their  native  shore, 

And  dream  of  Logyi  and  his  toils  no  more — 

Thxise  sons  yhbm  I  have  screen'd  from  war's  alarms 

Have  robb'dfcmy  heart  of  all  its  earthly  charms, 

And  now  not  one  lone  drop  of  my  blood  warm 

Uuns  in  the  veins  of  any  living  form; 

B^  cruel  men  my  joys  and  hopes  have  fled, 

They  sleep  with  these,  my  wife' and  children,  dead. 

O  sacred  wife,  to  thee  ho  pow'r  belongs, 

But  yet  thyJLogan  shall  revenge  thy  wrongs; 

Thy  mem'ry>  O  my  children,  pangs  imparts, 

Your  father's  friends  have  pierc'd  your  guiltless  hearts; 

For  this,  before  the  setting  sun  I  swear — 

And  thou,  Great  Spirit,  hear  my  humble  prayer — 

Never  shall  Logan  drop  the  scalping-knife 

Or  tomahawk,  until  the  victim's  life 

Shall  pay  the  ransom  of  those  children  slain,  *VMr 

And  this  dear  wife  now  stretched  along 'the  main; 

Ere  I  shall  falter  in  the  bloody  deed 

O  may  this  heart  with  spouting  crimson  bleed, 

May  ghastly  wounds  let  out  my  life  and  breath, 

And  seal  th«ie  eyes  in  one  eternal  death; 

For  this  I  draw  th«  blood  avenging  blade 

To  sweep  the  former  friends  Columbia  made: 

Ne'er  shall  these  hands  support  her  cause  again, 

Retrench  her  toils  or  lead  her  cAiel  train, 

More  cruel  far  than  Indian  bosoms  burn, 

For  Indian  warriors  ne'er  their  friends  will  spurn; 

Now  to  the  task  my  weary  feet  are  borne, 

But  0,  alas !  for  these  my  friends  I  mourn, 

No  friend  I  have,  distained  with  human  gore, 

Their  bones  must  bleach  along  this  billowy  shore. 

Death  is  no  terror,  yet  to  me  belongs 

To  reek  my  vengeance  and  revenge  thy  wrongs; 

Then  without  fear  I  yield  and  calmly  die 

To  seek  my  wife  and  children  in  the  sky. 

Till  this  is  gain'd  my  hand  shall  never  cease, 

Nor  take  from  foes  the  calumet  of  peace. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  327 


As  observed  from  the  balcony  of  the  Ocean  House,  at  Lewistown,  Delaware. 

As  I  stood  on  the  balcony  gazing  afar, 
A  light  stream  'd  across  like  the  gleam  of  a  star; 
Twas  the  light  of  the  sun,  and  it  broke  in  a  blaze 
O'er  the  tremulous  ocean,  exciting  amaze. 

*         *      * 

'  '   ^  '.'  c 

Tis  lovely,  I  said,  to  the  frJend  at  my  side, 
Ah!  yes,  he  exclaimed,  and  I  vieV  it  with  pride;.. 
It  illumines  the  land  of  the  brave  arid  4he  free,       .  , 
As  it  rises  afar  from  the  dark  rolling  sfa. 

And  mark  the  white  sails,  as  they  bend  to  the  bn|eze, 
Returning  from  far,  very  far  distant  seas; 
They  seem  to  my  sight  like  the  spirits  of  merj, 
On  eternity's  ocean,  in  fancy  vfe  ken. 

"%*   ". 

Oh!  yes,  I  exclaim  'd,  and  how  blest  it  must  be 
To  ride  and  to  rule  o'er  the  dark  rolling  sea; 
O'er  which  haughty  England  has  boasted  to  ride, 
But  who  has  been  checked  by  American  pride. 

1  Behold  on  Champlain  brave  McDonough  in  war, 
And  see  how  descended  the  bold  Briton's  star; 
Ay,  mark  the  b'rave  Jones,  when  he  gave  them  a  toast, 
And  allowed  the  bold  British  no  longer  to  boast. 

Oh  !  Delaware,  land  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
On  which  the  sun  rises  from  yonder  dark  sea; 
I  love  thee,  for  thou  wert  the  first  to  proclaim 
Our  freedom  from  slavery  —  freedom  from  shame. 

V 

Thy  chickens  are  brave  in  the  Held  of  the  fight, 

Forever  contending  for  honor  and  right; 

Thy  daughters  are  fair  ae  the  lilies  of  yore, 

And  their  manners  and  minds  ev'ry  man  must  adore. 

Oh!  Sun,  let  thy  beams  still  illumine  our  land, 
And  glory  awaken  on  every  hand; 
Let  our  chickens  still  crow  at  thy  rising  for  aye, 
And  the  name  of  our  worthies  be  doom'd  ne'er  to  die. 


ram  0f 


"Ah !  me,  how  many  a  tender  tear, 
Has  fallen  on  the  untimely  bier 
Of  those  who  on  the  field  have  died, 
Sad  martyrs  to  egregious  pride ! 
How  many  a  happy  heart  hath  bled 
Upon  false  honor's  gory  bed  ? 
How  many  a  blasted  hope  is  found, 
Upon  '  the  dark  and  bloody  ground  ?' "— ANON. 


ENTLE  reader,  the  story  which  I  am  about  to 
record,  and  which  from  the  sensitive  heart  may 
demand  the  tribute  of  a  tear,  is  not  drawn  from 
the  vast  store  of  poetical  imagination;  but  actu- 
ally occurred-^-and  that,  too,  within  the  confines 
of  the  glorious  littie  State  of  Delaware,  the 
damsels  of  which  are  among  the  loveliest  in  the 
world.  You  may  talk  of  the  Peries  of  Persia; 
of  the  Sylphs  of  Circassia,  and  the  dark-eyed, 
dazzling  Georgian  girls;  but  never  was  there  a 
more  graceful  or  beautiful  being,  than  the  one 
whose  touching  story  I  am  about  to  relate.  Mark 
me,  rtjy  dear  reader,  I  am  not  exaggerating. 
Every  eye  that  beheld  her,  was  entranced,  as  if 
some  Houri  of  the  Turkish  heaven  had  come 
down  to  earth,  blessed  with  the  grace  of  a  Grecian  Venus. 

Evelina  Summerville  was  not  only  distinguished  for  her  personal 
beauty,  but  for  her  talents  and  elegant  attainments;  and  when  I 
say  that  she  was  pre-eminent  among  the  dark-eyed  damsels  of 
Delaware,  I  have  paid  her  the  highest  compliment  it  is  in  my 
power  to  pay. 

Evelina  was  the  only  and  idolized  daughter  of  respectable  and 

wealthy  parents,  in  the  town  of  M ,  in  which  she  moved  the 

centre  of  every  elegant  and  accomplished  circle.  No  expense 
was  spared  to  have  her  accomplished,  not  only  in  the  brilliant  and 
beautiful,  but  in  the  more  solid  branches  of  learning.  She  was 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  329 

placed  in  Wilmington,  at  that  excellent  Female  Institute,  which 
has  sent  forth  so  many  accomplished  young  ladies,  to  become,  as 
mothers,  the  great  moral  teachers  in  the  happy  homes  of  Delaware. 

Evelina  Summerville  was  not  only  beautiful  and  accomplished ; 
but  in  her  manners  there  was  a  magic,  a  witchery,  that  won  and 
carried  captive  every  heart.  A  light,  as  beautiful  and  blissful  as 
that  which  beams  from  the  eye  of  an  angel,  was  ever  illuminating 
with  smiles  her  lovely  countenance;  and  in  her  heart  there  was 
so  much  gentleness,  and  affectionate  feeling,  that  few  could  enjoy 
her  society  long,  without  loving  her.  In  company,  she  was  so  free, 
so  familiar,  so  kind,  that  the  most  diffident  were  placed  at  perfect 
ease;  for  she  possessed  that  peculiar  art  of  making  every  one  feel 
the  freedom  that  is  felt  at  home.  Whether  at  home  or  abroad, 
her  merry  laugh  infused  joy  into  every  heart:  for  she  was  ever  the 
same  light-hearted  being,  and  knew  that  by  sympathy  we  weep 
with  those  who  weep,  and  laugh  with  those  who  laugh.  Is  it,  then, 
any  wonder  that  Evelina  Summerville  became  a  universal  favorite, 
and  that  many  a  dashing  dandy  bowed  down  in  adoration  before 
her?  No.  She  was  beloved  by  the  young  and  the  old,  the  rich 
and  the  poor,  the  haughty  and  the  humble,  the  happy  and  the 
wretched. 

Evelina  and  George  Blakely  had  formed  a  mutual  attachment 
in  childhood,  while  at  school;  and  they  had  breathed  a  mutual 
vow,  that  they  would  live  for  each  other;  that  no  changes  of  time, 
no  reverses  of  fortune,  no  whim  or  caprice  should  estrange  them. 
The  parents  of  Evelina  saw  the  growing  attachment  with  disap- 
probation ;  for  though  George,  in  boyhood,  was  held  up  as  a  pattern 
of  moral  excellence;  he,  or  his  parents  were  guilty  of  one  thing 
not  to  be  forgiven — poverty!  Yes,  poor  fieorge  was  condemned 
by  them  for  his  poverty,  a  thing  he  had  no  hand  in,  and  which  he 
might  in  future  years  retrieve. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Summerville  were  both  ambitious,  and  they  desired 
their  daughter,  as  she  was  endowed  with  extraordinary  beauty,  and 
would  be  wealthy  beside,  to  wed  some  rich  and  distinguished  man. 
George  was  obscure  and  poor.  He  was  not  even  celebrated  within 
the  purlieus  of  his  own  town,  and  he  supported  himself  by  teaching 
a  school. 

Sad  was  the  soul  of  George,  and  gloomy  was  the  day,  when 
Evelina  bade  adieu  to  the  sunny  scenes  of  her  childhood,  and 
went  her  way  to  Wilmington,  to  finish  her  education.  Her  parents 
had  two  objects  in  view;  the  first  of  which  was,  to  avail  themselves 
of  the  advantages  of  an  excellent  seminary;  and  the  second  was, 
42 


330  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  hope  that  a  long  absence  would  obliterate  her  affection  for 
poor,  obscure  George;  for  the  understanding  was,  that  she  was  to 
remain  until  she  completed  a  full  collegiate  education.  Vain, 
illusive  hope!  They  did  not  think  of  those  winged  messengers 
of  love,  that  would  carry  to  each  bereaved  bosom  a  sweet  conso- 
lation— the  consolation  of  still  being  remembered.  They  thought 
not  of  those  couriers,  called  letters,  which,  though  silent  and  un- 
seen, bear  heart-warm  blessings  many  a  weary  mile.  No,  they 
did  not  think  of  these. 

Evelina  did  not  long  remain  at  the  institute,  in  Wilmington, 
without  attracting  the  eyes  of  the  proudest  and  loftiest,  to  her 
transcendent  beauty.  As  at  home,  she  became  the  envy  of  her 
own  sex,  and  the  admiration  of  the  most  gifted  and  accomplished 
men,  till  her  personal  and  mental  beauty  became  the  theme  of  all, 
who  could  properly  appreciate  her  charms. 

She  had  been  in  Wilmington  one  year,  and  had  been  visited 
once  by  her  parents.  She  often  mused  upon  days  gone  by,  and 
when  the  happy  scenes  of  her  childhood  rose  before  her,  bright 
and  beautiful  as  when  she  wandered  in  them,  in  other  years,  with 
George,  the  vision  of  love  became  so  vivid,  that  she  felt  a  regret 
that  she  had  been  so  long  separated  from  him,  whom  absence  had 
made  dearer.  Though  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be  happy,  the 
thought  that  she  was  exiled  fromall  that  she  loved,  made  her  gloomy. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  one  bpgiit  and  beautiful  morning  in  June, 
to  a  class  mate,  "come,  Gertrude,  let  us  stroll  on  the  romantic 
banks  of  the  Brandywine.  Every  thing  now  is  bursting  into  bloom 
and  beauty,  and  the  songs  of  birds,  and  the  sight  of  flowers,  will 
cheer  my  mind,  which  has  too  long  indulged  in  a  vision  of  love, 
which,  though  sweet,  is  sorrowful  to  the  soul." 

"I  saw  a  cloud  upon  your  sunny  countenance,"  returned  the 
smiling  Gertrude,  "  but  did  not  know  you  were  in  love.  Ah !  well 
Virgil  says,  'it  is  a  comfort  to  the  wretched  to  have  companions 
in  misery.'  " 

"  My  heart  is  far  away,"  sighed  the  gay  Evelina,  as  they  turned 
into  Market  street,  and  were  approached  by  a  young  gentleman, 
who  was  well  acquainted  with  Gertrude. 

"  Oh !  Frank,"  exclaimed  Gertrude,  "  let  me  make  you  acquainted 
with  one  of  the  loveliest  of  her  sex." 

Francis  Wildemer  was  like  a  brother  to  Gertrude;  and,  between 
them,  there  was  an  attachment  of  a  higher  import  than  that  which 
exists  between  brother  and  sister;  but  no  sooner  did  he  gaze  into 
the  face  of  Evelina,  than  he  felt  the  arrow  of  Dan  Cupid  transfixed 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD   BARD.  331 

in  his  heart.  Gertrude  saw  the  triumph  of  charms  superior  to  her 
own,  and  she  watched  his  every  look  and  motion,  when  they  had 
ascended  the  Brandy  wine  and  seated  themselves  on  some  romantic 
rocks.  Her  heart  beat  with  indescribable  emotions,  when  she 
saw  their  eyes  meet,  and  had,  or  imagined  she  had,  evidence  that 
a  flame  had  been  suddenly  lighted  on  the  altar  of  their  hearts.  She 
felt  how  severe  it  was  to  see  our  own  hopes  blighted — to  see  the  fair 
flowers  of  affection,  which  we  have  nurtured  so  gently,  perish  at 
our  feet — to  see  the  superb  temple,  which  was  erected  in  our 
hearts,  tumbled  to  atoms. 

Severe  as  it  was,  Gertrude  did  see  her  fondest  hopes  decay.  The 
truth  is  soon  told.  Frank  had  been  struck  by  one  of  those  arrows 
called  love  at  first  sight;  and,  though  he  had  considered  Gertrude 
beautiful,  the  transcendent  charms  of  Evelina  carried  his  heart 
captive,  by  what  the  French  call  a  coup  de  main,  or,  perhaps,  more 
properly,  a  coup  d'csil. 

Francis  Wildemer  was  the  heir  of  a  wealthy  and  influential  family 
in  Pennsylvania,  and  he  resolved  to  woo  and  win  the  heart  and 
hand  of  Evelina  at  all  hazards.  He  was  one  of  those  rattle-brained, 
dare-devil  fellows,  who  stop  at  nothing,  and  who  care  not  for  the 
means,  so  that  the  end  is  accomplished.  Though  young,  he  had 
already  been  engaged  in  one  of  thp«e  lamentable  remnants  of  the 
Feudal  ages;  called  a  duel,  in  whfdfi,  some  way  or  other,  much  to 
to  the  credit  of  Frank,  a  lady  had"b«en  involved. 

When  the  time  arrived  for  the"  return  of  Evelina  to  the  home  of 
her  childhood,  George  Blakely  was  made  superlatively  happy,  and 
Francis  Wildemer  superlatively  wretched.  Frank  was  now  madly 
in  love  with  her;  had  proposed;  and,  much  to  his  surprise,  had 
been  rejected.  Evelina's  parents  were  on  his  side;  but  Evelina's 
heart  was  averse  to  his  proposal. 

"  Why  do  you  reject  me?"  enquired  Frank. 

"  For  the  best  of  reasons  in  the  world,"  returned  the  bewitching 
girl,  smiling.  "  The  first  is,  that  my  heart  has  long  since  been 
given  to  another;  and  the  second  is,  that  I  breathed  an  irrevocable 
vow  never  to  wed  any  but  him.  To  be  candid  with  you,  Frank,  are 
not  these  weighty  reasons?" 

"They  are  certainly  heavy  and  hard  ones,  too,"  sighed  Frank, 
with  a  downcast  look,  "but  cannot  they  be  waived?" 

"  No,  never.  The  vow  breathed  by  the  innocent  lips  of  child- 
hood, from  a  heart  that  knew  no  guile,  cannot  be  lightly  can- 
celled— can  never  be  forgotten.  If  you  regard  my  peace  of  mind 
and  future  happiness,  I  conjure  you  to  relinquish  the  vain  hope  of 


332  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

my  hand;  for  you  surely  would  not  wish  to  possess  my  hand  with- 
out my  heart.  You  are  of  too  noble  a  disposition  to  wish  to 
possess  my  hand,  while  my  heart  would  be  possessed  by  another." 

"  But,  dearest  Evelina,  I  have  the  consent  of  your  parents, 
which  I  solicited  when  they  last  visited  you.  Would  you  set  at 
nought  their  wishes,  and  violate  their  commands?  Who  is  he, 
whom  you  would  wed?  I  conjure  you  to  think  of  this.  Is  he 
not  poor,  obscure  and  low?" 

A  flame  of  resentment  flashed  up  from  the  heart  of  Evelina, 
kindling  her  eye  and  cheek;  and,  ere  he  finished  the  sentence  so 
obnoxious  to  her  soul,  she  warmly  exclaimed,  "  Oh!  yes,  sir,  that 
he  is  poor,  is  very  true;  but  have  I  not  an  ample  inheritance  to 
bestow  upon  him  ?  It  is  true  that,  like  many  others,  he  has  not 
distinguished  himself  yet  in  the  field  or  the  forum ;  but  a  nobler 
heart,  than  that  within  his  bosom,  does  not  bless,  nor  beat  within, 
the  happy  homes  of  Delaware." 

"But  are  your  parents'  wishes  nothing,  Miss  SummerviUei" 
enquired  Frank,  with  a  cool  provoking  air.  »**T*.  J- 

"  I  see,"  retorted  Evelina,  as  her  lovely  eyes  were  again  lit  up 
by  a  sudden  emotion,  "  that  you  are  disposed  to  seek  assistance 
from  supposed  parental  power.  Do  not,  I  pray  you,  deceive 
yourself.  The  fortune  bequeathed  me,  by  my  uncle,  I  hold  inde- 
pendent of  my  parents;  and  I  hold  this  truth  to  be  self-evident, 
that  a  daughter  has  certain  inalienable  rights,  among  which,  is 
that  of  choosing  the  man  who,  as  her  husband,  is,  in  her  judgment, 
best  qualified  to  render  her  happy.  Oh!  how  many,  many  hearts 
have  broke  and  bled  under  the  tyranny  of  parents!  How  many 
amiable  daughters  have  been  forced  to  wed  with  those  they  could 
not  love,  and  have  been  doomed  to  drag  out  a  life  of  wretchedness, 
unalleviated  by  a  single  joy !  Some  have  gone  to  dwell  in  splendid 
mansions,  and,  while  surrounded  with  all  the  gorgeous  trappings 
of  wealth,  their  hearts  were  pining  away  in  unavailing  grief  and 
regret.  They  were  given,  by  their  avaricious  parents,  to  men, 
whose  wealth  allured  them;  while  their  affections  had  been  given, 
by  themselves,  to  those,  whose  feelings  and  affections  were  con- 
genial with  their  own.  Think  of  this,  Mr.  Wildemer,  and  you 
will  see,  that  you  could  not  be  happy  with  one,  whose  affections 
belong  to  another." 

"Then,  Miss  Summerville,  you  spurn  parental  guardianship,  and 
rely  entirely  on  your  own  judgment  ?" 

"No,  sir;  I  do  not.  No  one  more  reveres  the  advice  of  a  pa- 
rent than  I  do,  and  no  one  would  make  greater  sacrifices  for  their 


WBITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BAUD.  333 

happiness;  but  when  I  am  to  be  made  a  sacrifice  to  Mammon; 
when  my  husband  is  to  be  chosen,  and  he  is  not  to  be  the  one 
who  possesses  my  affections,  I  beg  to  demur.  Never  till  my  pa- 
rents can  feel  as  I  feel,  and  judge  as  I  judge,  will  I  consent  to 
their  choice  of  a  husband  for  me.  What  are  all  the  glittering 
gewgaws  of  wealth,  and  all  the  pomp  and  pride  of  princely  gran- 
deur, if  the  heart  is  mourning  over  the  mausoleum  of  its  hopes?" 
4111  Well,  dearest  Evelina,"  said  Frank,  taking  her  small  white 
hand  in  both  of  his,  "you  will  think  better  of  my  proposition 
hereafter.  It  would  be  the  pride  of  my  soul  to  grace  my  ancestral 
halls  with  so  lovely  a  flower  as  Evelina  Summerville,  who  is,  in 
my  eye,  the  fairest  of  the  fair." 

"But  if  that  flower  should  pine  and  perish,  for  the  want  of  con- 
genial soil,  your  triumph  would  be  short-lived,"  returned  the 
beauty,  as  she  curved  her  lip,  and  bent  her  dark,  dazzling  eye  full 
upon  him. 

» 'Evelina's  words  were  calculated  to  dampen  the  ardor  of  one 
lc»5S  determined  than  Francis  Wildemer;  but  they  only  had  the 
effect  of  making  him  more  strenuous  in  his  efforts  to  win  the 
proud  beauty.  Though  her  independent  spirit  militated  against 
his  hopes  and  wishes,  yet  it  caused  him  to  admire  her  the  more, 
and  he  resolved  to  have  her  at  all  hazards.  ; 

"Farewell,  Mr.  Wildemer,"  said  Evelina,  next  morning,  "I  am 
going  back  to  the  happy  scenes  of  my  childhood." 

"Any  place  is  happy  where  you  are,"  returned  Frank,  as  he 
grasped  her  hand.  "  Farewell,  I  shall  soon  follow  you." 

"You  had  better  save  yourself  the  trouble." 

"Why  so?     Is  there  no  hope?"  enquired  Frank,  laughing. 

"No,  not  a  particle,"  answered  the  gay  girl,  echoing  his  laugh. 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  returned  Frank,  as  he  shook  her  hand 
and  departed.  The  huge  stage,  in  a  short  time  after,  started;  and 
bore  away  that  exquisitely  beautiful  being,  to  the  great  regret  of 
more  hearts  than  one.  So  elegant,  so  easy  and  bewitching  was 
Evelina  in  her  manners;  so  engaging  and  entertaining  in  her  con- 
versation; and  so  transcendently  beautiful  in  her  person  withal, 
that  it  was  no  wonder  her  departure  vvas  regretted. 

The  golden  orb  of  day  had  just  sunk  below  the  western  horizon, 
and  the  still  hour  of  evening,  with  all  its  hallowed  associations, 
was  coming  on,  drowning  everything  in  a  delicious  dreaminess; 
when  George  Blakely  entered  the  residence  of  the  Summervilles, 
once  more  blessed  with  the  presence  of  its  household  deity. 
Three  long  years  had  passed  since  his  eyes  had  feasted  on  the 


334  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

charms  of  the  beautiful  Evelina.  There  she  lay,  reclining  on  a 
crimson  sofa.  Fatigued,  she  had  fallen  asleep.  What  a  vision  of 
love  and  loveliness  !  Since  he  had  seen  her,  she  had  thrown  off 
girlhood,  and  had  bloomed  into  the  voluptuous  beauty  of  woman- 
hood. There  she  lay,  with  all  the  gorgeous  grace  and  symmetry 
of  the  Venus  de  Medicis.  No  Apelles,  no  Michael  Angelo,  no 
Raphael  ever  imagined — no  painter's  pencil,  no  sculptor's  chisel 
ever  fashioned  or  formed  so  much  of  grace  and  beauty.  On  one 
fairy  hand  rested  her  exquisite  head,  from  which  fell  a  profusion 
of  ringlets,  shading  a  neck  and  bosom  that  were  smooth  as  marble, 
and  white  as  alabaster.  Her  form,  of  perfect  symmetry,  was 
stretched  at  full  length ;  and  from  her  white  muslin  dress  pro- 
truded two  of  the  most  diminutive  and  delicate  little  feet,  the  very 
slippers  on  which  had  power  to  wound  the  heart.  But  George's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  angelic  face  before,  on  which  the  twilight 
fell  with  a  mellow  radiance,  heightening  the  bloom  on  her  glowing 
cheek.  Her  lips,  so  like 

"A  dish  of  ripe  strawberries,  smother 'd  in  cream," 

seemed  to  be  moving,  as  if  breathing  blessings;  while  a  smile 
played  over  them,  like  the  golden  sunlight  of  morning  dancing  on 
twin  rose-buds.  That  smile  was  sunlight,  indeed,  to  the  soul  of 
George ;  and  he  longed  to  look  into  the  dreamy  depths  of  those 
dark  and  dazzling  eyes,  which  now  closed  upon  this  world,  and 
were  surveying  the  romantic  revelations  of  a  world  of  dreams. 

Scarcely  did  the  wish  cross  his  mind,  ere  she  awoke  ;  and, 
springing  to  her  feet,  stood  before  him  the  very  impersonation  of 
an  earthly  angel.  Awed  by  the  presence  of  so  much  virtue,  dig- 
nity and  beauty,  he  looked  bewildered,  not  knowing  what  to  say 
or  which  way  to  turn ;  but  the  cordial  welcome  he  received  from 
the  fair  Evelina,  soon  reassured  him ;  and  no  sooner  did  the  light 
of  her  lovely  eye  fall  upon  him,,. than  he  was  satisfied  that  she  was 
still  the  same  in  faith  and  in  affection,  unaltered  by  the  lapse  of 
time. 

Sweetly  and  swiftly,  now,  flew  by  the  golden  hours;  though 
the  cold,  averted  looks  of  Mr.  aixl  $frs.  Summerville,  met  George 
every  time  he  crossed  the  threshold.  He  often  heard  Evelina 
speak  of  Francis  Wildemer;  and  one  day  he  saw  an  elegant  car- 
riage stop  at  the  hotel,  the  occupant  of  which  alighted,  and  went 
immediately  to  the  residence  of  the  Summervilles.  The  very 
sound  of  the  knocker  seemed  like  the  knell  of  all  his  hopes.  A 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  335 

wealthy  suitor,  he  knew,  could  not  but  be  well  received  by  the 
parents  of  Evelina ;  and,  for  a  week,  he  was  on  the  horns  of  a 
dilemma,  not  knowing  how  to  proceed. 

The  parents  of  Evelina  were  delighted  with  the  gay,  dashing, 
young  Frank  Wildemer ;  and  used  every  argument  to  induce  Eve- 
lina to  accept  his  proffered  hand. 

"Would  you  have  me  happy  or  miserable?"  she  enquired.  "If 
I  am  to  be  the  first,  I  must  marry  George ;  but  if  I  am  to  be  miser- 
able, I  must  wed  Francis  Wildemer,  whom  I  do  not  love." 

"Cannot  you  be  happy  with  so  wealthy  and  agreeable  a  young 
man  as  Francis?"  asked  her  father. 

"No,  my  dear  father;  have  I  not  often  heard  you  declare,  that 
there  was  no  situation  in  life  so  wretched,  as  was  that  of  a  woman 
compelled  to  marry  the  man  she  could  not  love?" 

This  was  a  death-blow  to  the  arguments  of  her  parents,  and 
they  resolved  that  the  best  way  was  to  let  her  make  her  own  choice. 
Frank,  in  the  mean  time,  was  determined  to  carry  off  the  great 
beauty,  and  threatened  to  call  out  any  man  who  should  dare  to 
step  between  him  and  the  angel  of  his  idolatry.  George  had  met 
Frank  frequently,  at  Mr.  SummerviUe's  house ;  and,  though  they 
treated  each  other  politely,  there  was,  evidently,  no  good  feeling 
subsisting  between  them. 

One  charming  evening,  in  August,  George  found  Evelina  alone, 
and  made  up  his  mind  to  put  the  matter  at  rest,  by  making  a  de- 
cisive proposal.  He  was  resolved  to  know  the  worst,  and  to  marry 
the  fair  object  of  his  adoration,  or  relinquish  all  hope  in  future. 

"Have  you  forgotten,"  said  he  to  the  fair  creature  before  him, 
"  the  mutual  vows  that  we  breathed  in  the  happy  days  of  child- 
hood, when  we  pledged  ourselves  to  live  for  each  other?" 

"  I  never  forget  a  solemn  obligation,"  returned  Evelina,  while  a 
slight  blush  passed  over  her  face. 

"Are  you  ready  to  redeem  that  vow?'1 
•'I  am;"  and  a  "deeper  blush  crimsoned  the  face  of  Evelina. 
"Enough;  I  am  the  happiest  of  men." 

The  day  was  appointed  for  their  marriage,  and  George  went  to 
his  school  in  an  ecstasy  of  bliss.  So  bewildered  was  he,  that  he 
set  wrong  copies;  spilled  in£>  split  pens,  and  was  totally  unable 
to  do  sums,  for  his  pupils,  in  arithmetic.  His  parents  thought  he 
was  becoming  deranged,  until  they  discovered  that  he  was  soon  to 
be  married  to  the  loveliest  of  women,  and  the  favorite  of  all  who 
knew  her. 


336  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

There  was,  however,  a  cloud  upon  the  mind  of  Evelina.  She 
had  heard  that  Frank  had  sworn  vengeance  to  any  man  who  should 
cross  hjs  path  in  courtship,  and  she  dreaded  that  a  duel  would  be 
the  consequence ;  well  knowing  that  the  soul  of  George  would 
never  shrink  from  a  challenge,  and  that  Frank  had  been  engaged 
in  a  duel.  This  fearful  thought  took  full  possession  of  her  mind, 
and  she  laid  an  injunction,  that  the  matter  should  be  kept  a  secret 
until  they  were  married;  that,  as  a  married  man,  George  might 
refuse  to  fight,  without  any  sacrifice  of  honor.  Two  nights  be- 
fore, she  had  a  dreadful  dream,  in  which  she  saw  George  fall  be- 
fore the  pistol  of  Frank ;  and  the  vision  was  so  vivid  that  she 
could  not  banish  it  from  her  mind.  The  bleeding  form  of  George 
was  ever  before  her  excited  imagination ;  and  being,  like  most 
persons,  superstitious,  she  was  firmly  persuaded  that  something 
would  happen. 

In  the  mean  time,  preparations  were  going  on  for  a  splendid 
wedding;  the  house  was  crowded  with  mantua-makers,  milliners, 
and  merchants'  clerks;  enormous  pound-cakes  were  being  baked, 
and  the  house  renovated  from  top  to  bottom. 

At  length  the  morning  of  the  marriage  day  arrived,  and  Evelina 
was  almost  worn  out  with  the  incessant  fatigue  she  had  under- 
gone. Still  that  dreadful  fear,  that  something  would  happen,  was 
in  her  mind ;  she  could  not  shake  it  off;  and  in  her  disordered 
fancy  she  could  see  her  beloved  George  borne  from  the  fatal  duel- 
ing ground,  bleeding  and  gashed  with  wounds. 

Every  arrangement  having  been  made,  she  sat  down,  in  the 
afternoon,  in  her  large  arm  rocking  chair  to  rest  her  wearied 
limbs.  A  dreamy  sleepiness  stole  over  her,  for  she  had  not  closed 
her  eyes  the  night  before.  Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  a  ser- 
vant rushed  in,  crying,  "Oh!  Miss  Evelina,  there  is  mad  work  at 
the  hotel!" 

"For  God's  sake,"  exclaimed  Evelina,  as  she  started  up,  "what 
is  the  matter?  Is  George  killed  ?  Speak?" 

"  Oh !  he  and  Mr.  Wildemer  have  had  a  fight,  and  the  floor  is 
covered  with  blood.  Then  they  parted  them,  and  Mr.  Wildemer 
swore  he  would  have  revenge,  and  challenged  Mr.  George  to  meet 
him  over  the  bridge,  in  an  hour." 

"Did  George  accept  it?"  screamed  Evelina  in  trepidation. 

"Yes,  Ma'am,  and  they  are  now  fixing  and  making  their  ar- 
rangements for  the  bloody  work." 

"Oh!  I  expected  it!  I  expected  it!"  screamed  Evelina,  as  she 
ran  round  the  room,  wringing  her  hands,  in  a  wild  transport  of 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFOkD    BARD.  337 

despair.  "He  will  be  killed!  he  will  be  tilled!  Oh!  God,  I 
dreamt  of  it  the  other  night !  Wretched  being  that  I  am  !  But 
it  must,  it  must  be  prevented." 

With  dishevelled  hair,  and  a  wild  imploring  look,  she  rushed 
into  the  room  of  her  parents,  and  falling  upon  her  knees  before 
her  father,  she  shrieked  in  piteous  tones,  "Save  him,  oh!  save 
him,  my  father,  or  1  am  eternally  undone !" 

To  her  surprise,  her  father  turned  and  said,  unmoved,  "As  you 
make  your  bed,  my  daughter,  so  you  must  lie  in  it.  Had  you  been 
obedient  to  the  wishes  of  your  parents,  had  you  not  violated  the 
sacred  duty  you  owe  to  them,  you  would  have  escaped  the  horri- 
ble event  which  now  wrings  your  soul  with  anguish.  You  have 
drawn  the  judgment  upon  yourself." 

"  Save  him,  oh !  save  him,  my  mother !"  again  screamed  Evelina. 

"You  have  drawn  this  just  punishment  on  your  own  head," 
coolly  responded  her  mother.  "Your  headstrong  will  may  be  the 
cause  of  one,  perhaps  of  two  human  beings  being  ushered  into  the 
presence  of  an  offended  God,  covered  with  their  own  blood." 

Evelina  shrieked  wildly  in  her  despair;  and  flying  to  her  cham- 
ber, she  hastily  threw  on  her  bonnet,  and  fled  from  the  house  like 
one  distracted,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  did.  She  flew  to  the 
hotel,  but  they  were  not  there,  and  she  could  not  learn  in  what 
direction  they  were  gone. 

"Oh!  horrors,"  she  cried,  as  she  rushed  along  the  street  to  the 
house  in  which  George's  parents  lived,  "perhaps,  ere  now,  pierced 
by  a  ball,  George  has  fallen  !" 

Without  ceremony,  she  ran  into  the  house,  screaming — "  Save 
him!  Oh!  save  him!  or  let  me  perish  with  him." 

"  Save  whom  ?"  cried  the  father  of  George. 

"  Save  George ;  he  has  gone  to  fight  a  duel." 

"Oh!"  cried  Mrs.  Blakely,  "you  have  been  the  cause  of  the 
murder  of  my  son  ;  his  blood  is  on  your  head  !  You  have  em- 
bittered my  days,  and  will  send  my  grey  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  Oh  !  wretched  mother  that  I  am  !" 

These  words  passed  through  the  brain  of  Evelina  like  red-hot 
balls.  The  next  moment  the  sound  of  voices  and  the  tramping  of 
feet,  rushing  by,  saluted  her  ear,  and  the  cry,  "  a  man  has  been 
killed  in  a  duel!"  caused  her  to  shriek.  As  she  turned  her 
streaming  eyes  to  the  door,  a  number  of  men  appeared,  bearing  the 
dead  body  of  her  affianced  husband — the  bleeding  form  of  George, 

"  Behold  the  havoc  you  have  made  !"  cried  the  weeping  mother 
of  George,  to  Evelina. — "  Behold  my  murdered  son  !" 
43 


338  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Evelina  would  have  fled  from  the  scene,  but  she  was  transfixed 
to  the  spot.  She  was  held  as  by  a  spell,  while  her  wildly  glaring 
eyes  were  directed  to  the  bleeding  bosom  of  George.  A  ball  had 
pierced  his  heart,  and  the  blood  was  oozing  from  the  wound. 
His  pale  face  which  she  had  so  often  seen  wreathed  in  smiles, 
was  turned  towards  her;  and  while  she  fixed  her  gaze  upon  it,  the 
mourning  mother,  swooned,  and  fell  across  the  lifeless  body. 

But  the  dreadful  scene  was  not  yet  complete — the  last  act  of  the 
awful  tragedy  was  to  be  enacted.  Francis  Wildemer,  with  a  hag- 
gard countenance,  his  eyes  rolling  in  frenzy,  rushed  into  the  room ; 
and  standing  before  the  affrighted  Evelina,  with  a  glittering  dag- 
ger in  his  hand,  he  exclaimed — "  Oh  !  fatal  beauty,  see  the  havoc 
that  your  coquettish  charms  have  made !  Another  victim  is  doomed 
to  die  at  your  feet,  a  .sad  sacrifice  to  that  dangerous  gift,  called 
beauty." 

Evelina  shuddered  and  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf;  but  as  if  held 
by  the  charm  of  an  enchantress,  she  could  not  move  from  the 
spot.  The  wild  eye  of  Wildemer  was  fixed  upon  her,  and  its 
fascination  seemed  to  hold  her  very  soul  enthralled ;  as  the  poor 
bird  is  held  captive  by  the  mysterious  eye  of  the  serpent.  In  vain 
she  endeavored  to  turn  from  its  ghastly  gaze — in  vain  she  attempted 
to  fly  from  the  terrific  scene. 

"I  have  come  to  die  at  your  feet,"  exclaimed  Wildemer,  and 
plunged  the  dagger  to  his  heart.  As  he  fell,  she  saw  the  blood 
stream  from  his  bosom,  and  his  eyes  roll  in  agony. 

"  Oh !  God,  have  mercy!"  she  screamed ;  "he  has  killed  himself!" 

"Who?  who?  What  is  the  matter?"  cried  Mrs.  Summerville. 
"Why,  Evelina,  you  have  been  struggling  with  the  nightmare. 
Wake  up ;  it  is  high  time  for  you  to  be  dressing  for  the  marriage 
ceremony.  Get  about;  the  guests  will  soon  be  here." 

Evelina  had  indeed  been  dreaming.  She  had  fallen  asleep  in 
the  chair,  and  her  former  foolish  fear  that  Frank  and  George  might 
have  an  altercation,  had  caused  her  dream  of  the  duel.  How  dif- 
ferent was  the  scene !  They  were  soon  after  married,  and  with 
mirth  and  music  the  joyous  evening  passed  away.  The  next  morn- 
ing an  elegant  carriage  was  seen  at  the  door  of  the  hotel,  in  which 
Francis  Wildemer  seated  himself,  and  drove  off  to  parts  unknown. 

George  and  Evelina  now  dwell  in  one  of  the  happiest  homes  of 
Delaware,  and  they  have  a  thriving  family  of  children,  whose  heads 
rise  one  above  another,  like  stair-steps.  Evelina  has  never  re- 
gretted her  choice  of  a  husband,  neither  has  she  forgotten  the 

DUEL,  OR  THE  DREAM  OF  JjOVE. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  339 


A    POETICAL   TALK. 

Now  gentle  folks,  tho'  I'm  a  little  HIPPY, 

That  is,  somewhat  affected  with  the  BLUES; 
I'll  sing  you  what  is  call'd  a  comic  ditty, 
Of  what,  I'm  told, 
Occurr'd  of  old, 
In   Philadelphia  city, 
And  which  in  ancient  prints  you  may  peruse. 

On  Market  street, 
Say  ten,  or  mayhap  forty,  fifty  feet, 
Or  I  don't  know  but  ninety -odd  or  more, 
From  the  corner, 
Lived  Mr.  Homer, 

Who  kept  of  boots  and  shoes  a  first-rate  store; 
And  just  next  door, 
A  show, 
You  know, 

Was  kept  as  a  museum  by  John  Cope; 
And  in  the  large  yard  back, 
A  monkey — Dandy  Jack, 
Was  playing  pranks  all  day  upon  a  rope. 

Two  yards  or  so,  perhaps  it  might  be  four, 

From  this  same  rope,  in  Homer's  shop,  alas! 
There  was  a  window  cut;  there  was  no  door — 
Thro'  which  Jack  could  survey  all  that  might  pass, 

Without  a  glass, 
And  there,  from  day  to  day, 
How  long  I  cannot  say, 
Did   he   peruse 

The  workmen  making  shoes; 
Till  he,  I  think,  believed  at  last, 
That  he  could  stitch  a  boot  or  shoe  as  fast, 

And  well 

As  any  journeyman  he  saw 
His  wax'd  end  draw; 
But  still  till  he  had  tried  he  could  not  tell. 

The  proof  of  any  matter, 

Philosophers  have  said, 

So  I  have  read; 

Is  first  to  eat  the  pie,  then  lick  the  platter; 
So  when  one  day  the  workmen  went  to  dinner, 

As   I'm  a  sinner, 


340  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Jack  thro'  the  window  slip'd  from  his  retreat, 
And  took  upon  a  workman's  bench  his  seat; 

With  knowing  look, 

The  shoe  he  took, 
And  strap 'd  it  nicely  on  his  knee; 

And  then,  you  see, 
He  took  his  awl,   and  many  a  hole 
He  bored  through  both  the  upper  and  the  sole, 
While  with  the  end  he  sewed  them  fast, 

Ay,  even  to  the  last; 

Hearing  the  sound  of  footsteps,  Jack  retreated, 
And  in  a  trice  upon  his  rope  was  seated. 

"What  scoundrel  has  been  here?" 

Now  fell  upon  Jack's  ear, 
From  the  enraged  shoemaker,  who  beheld 

His  shoe  sew'd  up  into  a  knot; 
While  all  his  soul  with  indignation  swell 'd; 

And  many  an  oath 
Was  utter'd  on  the  spot, 
Which  frighten 'd  Jack  out  of  a  year  of  growth; 

Till  finding  that 

The  workman  had  not  smelt  a  rat, 
But  thought  that  some  outrageous  fellow, 

Quite  mellow, 

Had  done  the  shameful  act,  nor  could  conceive 
Twas  Jack,  tho'  Jack  was  laughing  in  his  sleeve. 

Now   the  same  f)lay, 

Next  day*. 

Jack  acted  orer; 

And  while  he  sew'd  the  ends  all  up, 
And  took  the  paste  and  lamp-black  cup, 

And   rub'd, 

And   scrub 'd, 
The  shoe  sole  well,  he  Uiought  he  was  in  clover;* 

Nor  would  he  budge, 

Till  from  the  street  he  heard 

A  footstep,  or  a  word, 

When  thro'  the  window  he  like  lightning  flew, 
And  to  the  roaring  .mad  shoemaker's  view, 
Sat  on  his  rope,  M  solemn  as  a  judge. 

For  several  days.  Jack  play?d  this  game, 
While  the  shoemaker  thunder 'd, 

And   wonder 'd 

What  villain  could  be  guilty  of  the  aauie: 
No  person  thro'  the  door, 
Beheld  him  pass; ' 
And   yet,  alas! 
By  some  mysterious  way  he  came, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  341 

St.  Crispin  swore; 

So  he  resolved  to  watch  for  the  villain  daily, 
And  if  he  caught  him,  give  him  his  shelalah. 

Next  day, 

Crispin,  as  usual,  left  Jack  at  his  play, 
And  started  as  if  going  home  to  dine; 
But  in  the  next  room  was  a  nook, 
From  which  he,  unperceived,  could  look 
On  all 

That  might  befall; 
And  soon  his  eyes  did  open  wide, 
When  he  beheld  Jack  slyly  slide 
Into  the  shop,  to  cut  another  shine; 
But  to  be  satisfied 
Jack  was  the  sinner; 
He  sat 
Down  flat, 

Upon  the  floor,  where  he  could  calmly  view 
Jack's  villainy,  if  he  DID  sew  the  shoe, 
Instead  of  going  home  to  dinner. 

Jack  soon   began, 

Like  any  journeyman, 
To  push  the  awl  and  draw  the  cord,  that  is, 

By  all  the  craft, 
Yclep'd  the  wax'd  end,  far  and  near; 

And  Crispin  laugh 'd, 
To  see  the  awful  and  most  comic  phiz 
Jack  made;   his  mouth  was  spread  from  ear  to  ear, 

And   straining,  too,  « 

To  pull  it  through, 
His  eyes  look'd  like  two  red  potatoes 

Stuck  in  a  pumpkin  red;    •"*  *f    T 
And  Crispin  swore,  by  all  the  Catos,. 
He'd  be  revenged  upon  the»  monkey's  head. 

So  dinner  time,  next  day, 
Came  round,  and  Jack  as  usual  was  sitting, 

Watching  for  the  next  play, 
And  laughing  as  if  both  his  ttAed  'were  splitting, 
"I'll  make  you-  laugh  «n  t'other  side," 

Replied 
The  workman,  whose  surname  waa  Eleazer, 

And  from  his  draw'r  he  took 

A  box  and  brush  and  razor, 

And  strapi'd  the  latter  on  a  book; 

While  Jack,  with  knowing  look, 
Still  sat  upon  the  rope  an  idle  gazer; 
Chuckling  to  think  how  he  would  imitate, 
And  little  dreaming  of  approaching  fate. 


342  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Now   Eleazer, 

After  he  long  and  well   had  strap 'd  the  razor, 
Made  a   soap   slush, 
And  with  the  brush, 
Lather 'd  his  face  all  over; 

Then  held  the  razor  full  in  view, 
Which  twice  across  his  neck  he  drew, 

But  'twas  the  back; 
So  then  he  laid  it  down  and  went  to  dinner. 

Poor  Jack 

Thought  now  he  certainly  had  got  in  clover; 
And  long  upon  the  book, 

When  Jack  crept  in  the  shop  with  cunning  look, 
He  strap 'd  the  razor, 
A  la  mode  de  Eleazer, 
Feeling  the  edge  to  see  if  it  was  thinner. 


When  back  from  dinner  Eleazer  came, — 

Oh!  what  a  shame! 
Oh!   what  a  piteous  sight  was  here! 

Jack's  corpse  upon  the  bench  was  gather'd, 
His  throat  was  cut  from  ear  to  ear; 
And  his  whole  face  was  thickly  lather 'd: 
Pale  as  a  ghost  he  lay, 
His  spirit  having  pass'd  away. 

Alas!  Jack's  sad  catastrophe, 

Should  teach  us  never  to  make  free 

With  other  people's  business,  for  I've  learnt, 

In  meddling  you  but  get  your  fingers  burnt. 


daman. 


The  glorious  little  Banner  State,  which  bad  the  honor,  through  Mr.  M'KEAI*.  of 
giving  a  Constitution  to  the  United  States. 

OH!  land  of  my  childhood,  I  long  to  behold 
Thy  green  grassy  tombs,  and  thy  temples  of  old; 
I  long  to  survey  the  sweet  spot  where  I  trod, 
Where  in  youth  I  fell  down  at  the  footstool  of  God. 

Dear  home  of  my  heart,  in  the  moments  of  sleep, 
Again  in  thy  green  shady  woodlands  I  weep; 
In  the  arms  of  my  mother,  I  smile  as  I  start, 
And  awake  far  away,  oh!  thou  home  of  my  heart! 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  343 

I 

In  the  dark  dream  of  memory  fondly  I  mourn 
O'er  the  hopes  from  my  heart  that  have  rudely  been  torn; 
O'er  affections  that  faded  in  boyhood's  bright  day, 
And  the  vows  that  have  vanished  like  music  away. 

Sweet  land  of  the  beautiful,  land  of  the  brave, 
Where  my  forefathers  fell  in  a  patriot's  grave; 
I  envy  the  bird  that  now  builds  in  thy  bowers, 
And  the  bee  that  is  banqueting  there  on  the  flowers. 

The  sister  with  whom  I  so  fondly  have  strayed, 
And  the  schoolmates  so  merry  with  whom  I  have  played, 
Have  gone  to  the  grave,  like  the  hopes  I  have  known, 
And  have  left  me  to  weep  and  to  wander  alone. 

In  the  land  of  the  stranger  my  footsteps  I  bend, 
Where  I  press  to  my  bosom  full  many  a  friend; 
Tho"  the  pathway  of  sin  and  of  sorrow  I've  trod, 
And  have  wandered  away  from  the  worship  of  God. 


mil  fair  JEtonj  Ian*, 

'TWAS  «n  a  merry  morn  in  June, 

Thro'  beauty's  blooming  bower, 
I  wander 'd,  with  my  harp  in  tune, 

To  seek  the  fairest  flower; 
But  ev'n  the  blushing  rose  of  Spain 
Could  not  compare,  in  sun  or  shower, 

With  one  that  graced  those  scenes; 
For  there  I  met  fair  Mary  Jane, 

Exulting  in  her  'teens. 

The  lily  hung  its  lovely  head, 

The  pink  essay 'd  to  please; 
The  honey-suckle,  sighing,  shed 

Its  odors  on  the  breeze; 
But  not  a  flowret  would  I  deign 
To  pluck,  from  trellice  or  from  trees, 

In  those  romantic  scenes; 
For  there  I  met  fair  Mary  Jane, 

Exulting  in  her  'teens. 

The  brightest,  sweetest  flowers  were  there, 

That  grace  this  flowery  world; 
The  rose  breath 'd  incense  on  the  air, 

Its  leaves  the  cowslip  rurl'd; 


344  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

But  there  was  one  that  was  not  vain, 
And  it  no  gauxly  leaves  unfurl'd; 

The  charm  of  those  bright  scenes; 
For  there  I  met  fair  Mary  Jane, 

Exulting  in  her  'teens. 

Oh!  wheresoe'er  my  feet  may  stray, 

Amid  life's  varied  flowers; 
I  never  can  forget  the  day, 

I  wander 'd  thro'  the  bowers; 
And  tho'  they  ne'er  can  come  again, 
I  never  can  forget  the  hours, 

In  those  romantic  scenes; 
For  there  I  met  Miss  Mary  Jane, 

Yet  lovely  In  her  'teens. 


(lining  on  tjje  /rat  nf  lutu, 

Tis  the  first  night  of  June,  and  the  song  of  the  bird 
No  more  in  the  glade  or  green  woodland  is  heard; 
The  herd  in  the  field,  and  the  lambs  on  the  hill, 
Have  sunk  to  their  slumbers — all  Nature  is  still. 


The  bee  from  his  bower  has  gone  to  his  hive, 
And  the  garden  no  more  hums  with  insects  alive; 
No  more  the  gay  butterfly's  beauty  we  scan, 
For  all  are  at  rest,  but  the  spirit  of  man. 

The  sun 'has  gone  down  o'er  the  hills,  and  behold! 
The  horizon  is  glowing  with  azure  and  gold; 
While  above  in  its  beauty  the  evening  star  beams, 
Lake  the  light  of  young  hope  in  love's  rapturous  dreams. 

The  moon  now  appears,  where  the  clouds  have  been  riven, 
Like  a  silver  lamp  hung  in  the  high  hall  of  Heaven; 
And  she  smiles  in  her  brilliance  on  beautiful  bowers; 
Adorn 'd  with  the  sweetest  and  fairest  of  flowers. 

Tis  sweet  at  this  moment  to  muse  on  the  past, 
When  the  storm-king  in  terror  rode  by  on  the  blast; 
When  the  birds  flew  away  from  the  Winter  in  fear, 
And  the  flowers  were  gone  to  the  grave  of  the  year. 

Oh!  much  do  I  love  at  this  moment  to  dream, 
At  moonlight  alone  by  some  murmuring  stream, 
Of  the  spring-time  of  life,  though  its  blisses  are  o'er, 
And  alas!  in  this  world,  nothing  now  can  restore! 


The  mightiest  minds,  that  ever  shed  their  light 
O'er  the  world's  dark  interminable  night, 
Have  bowed  at  Superstition's  gloomy  shrine, 
With  all  the  zeal  that  marks  the  mind  divine ; 
Have  started  at  the  phantom  fancy  made, 
Nor  saw  the  weakness  that  their  fears  betray'd. 


^DISTINGUISHED  philosopher  hag  said,  that 
early  impressions  seldom  or  never  fade.  The 
question  may  be  asked,  why  are  some  persons 
so  much  more  superstitious;  so  much  more 
fearful  in  solitude  and  darkness  than  others? 
This  question  is  easily  answered.  The  tales 
of  ghosts,  goblins  and  buggaboos,  which  are 
told  in  the  nursery  and  eagerly  listened  to  in 
early  life,  are  the  prolific  source  of  more  than 
half  the  superstition  which  sits  like  an  incubus 
on  the  human  mind.  The  horrible  stories  re- 
lated to  children  in  the  nursery  by  the  ignorant 
nurse,  and  even  at  the  fireside  by  parents,  have 
caused  many  a  child  to  be  afraid  of  his  own 
shadow,  and  made  many  a  man  a  coward 
through  life.  Who  has  not  sat  in  childhood  by 
the  winter  evening  fireside  and  listened  to  tales  of  ghosts,  until 
he  was  afraid  to  go  to  bed,  or  even  to  look  round?  Remember, 
parents  of  this  enlightened  age,  that  these  impressions  never  fade; 
but  cling  to  the  mind  through  after  life,  causing  many  an  hour  of 
anxiety  and  terror.  Never  suffer  the  nurse  to  frighten  your  children 
with  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  they  will  never  fear 
darkness  more  than  light;  the  solitary  grave-yard  will  have  no  ter- 
rors for  them ;  neither  will  they  start  with  affright  at  a  vague  object 
in  the  dark. 

Knowing  the  evil  effects  of  nursery  tales  myself,  I  once  requested 
my  mother  not  to  suffer  the  nurse,  or  any  other  person,  to  poison 
the  mind  of  a  young  brother,  then  an  infant,  with  those  supersti- 
44 


346  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

tious  stories.  The  injunction  was  strictly  observed,  and  the  boy 
grew  up  entirely  free  from  fear,  and  unshackled  by  superstition. 
The  terrors  which  haunt  the  minds  of  other  children,  troubled  him 
not.  He  felt  no  alarm  when  he  entered  the  dark  room  alone,  or 
traversed  the  lonely  church-yard.  As  a  proof  that  his  mind  was 
not  imbued  with  that  fearfulness  so  common  to  children,  I  will 
relate  the  following  test  to  which  I  subjected  him  when  he  was  but 
ten  years  of  age. 

On  a  table  in  the  room  where  I  wrote,  sat  a  human  skull;  which 
I  had  brought  from  the  University  of  Pennsylvania.  One  night, 
about  eight  o'clock,  I  said,  "Tom,  what  will  you  ask  to  go  up  to 
my  room,  alone  in  the  dark,  and  bring  me  the  skull  that  sits  on 
the  table?  Will  you  do  it  for  a  dollar?" 

"Yes." 

'•  Will  you  for  half  a  dollar?"  I  enquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  Will  you  for  a  quarter?" 

"  Why,  brother  John,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  not  afraid; 
I'll  bring  it  down  for  nothing." 

And  away  he  went,  though  it  was  so  dark  that  he  had  to  grope 
his  way;  but  in  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  bearing  in  his  hand 
the  identical  human  skull. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  his  young  sister,  "I  would  not  have  done  it 
for  the  world!" 

And  indeed  how  many  children  can  now  be  found  who  would 
feel  no  terror  in  performing  such  a  task  ?  Yet  that  skull  was  nothing 
more  than  a  piece  of  wood  of  the  same  size.  There  is  no  in- 
herent cause  of  alarm  in  a  dead  body.  That  horror  which  pervades 
the  mind,  originates  in  those  early  impressions  which  are  said 
never  to  fade. 

Some  of  the  greatest  men  that  have  ever  adorned  the  pages  of 
history  or  dignified  the  world,  have  been  as  superstitious  as  the 
most  ignorant.  It  is  a  false  idea  to  suppose  that  none  but  the 
ignorant  are  superstitious.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  has  been  aptly  styled 
the  great  Leviathian  of  English  literature,  was  a  firm  believer  in 
ghosts,  and  excited  great  alarm  in  London  at  one  time  in  consequence 
of  the  appearance  of  one  in  that  city,  great  notoriety  to  which  was 
given  by  the  Doctor.  It  is  well  known  that  the  celebrated  John 
Wesley,  the  founder  of  Methodism,  was  no  less  a  believer  in  these 
airy  visitants  and  bugbears  of  the  brain,  than  was  Dr.  Johnson  ; 
ample  proof  of  which  may  be  gathered  from  his  "Journal." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  347 

How  can  we  account  for  such  minds  being  imbued  with  such 
unreasonable  philosophy,  but  from  the  supposition  that  the  seeds  of 
superstition  had  been  sown  in  early  years,  when  the  mind  imbibes 
erroneous  opinions  with  a  greedy  avidity  ?  The  education  of  child- 
hood we  cannot  shake  off,  though  the  mind  in  after  years  may  be 
illumined  with  all  the  learning  of  the  Vatican.  Mahomet  could 
not  propagate  his  doctrines  save  by  the  sword,  when  they  were 
first  promulgated  to  the  grown  up  Turks;  but  when  the  next  gen- 
eration imbibed  them  in  childhood,  no  sword  was  required- — they 
were  established  by  the  force  of  education. 

When  we  consider,  then,  the  power  and  the  importance  of  early 
impressions,  how  cautious  should  we  be,  that  nothing  should  be 
imprinted  on  the  youthful  mind  but  that  which  is  salutary — guard- 
ing every  avenue  against  the  entrance  of  false  opinions;  supersti- 
tious fallacy,  and  doubtful  doctrines!  The  impressions  made  on 
the  mind  of  the  child,  mark  out  the  course  of  the  man,  and  shape 
his  future  destiny  in  a  great  degree,  whether  for  good  or  evil. 

Were  all  parents  qualified  to  judge  of  this  matter,  and  were  all 
parents  to  watch  with  solicitude  the  expansion  of  the  infant  intel- 
lect, guiding  its  powers  and  protecting  it  from  the  inroads  of 
improper  influences,  what  a  glorious  race  were  ours!  No  longer 
should  we  behold  the  human  mind  a  waste  overgrown  with  weeds, 
but  a  garden  filled  with  gorgeous  flowers,  blooming  in  beauty  and 
redolent  with  sweets. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  tales  of  the  nursery.  Full  many  a 
winter's  eve  have  I  sat  in  the  family  circle  by  the  cheerful  fire, 
and  listened  to  "the  oldest  inhabitant"  relate  the  story  of  some 
ghost  or  goblin,  till  my  hat  would  rise  on  my  head,  and  my  blood 
run  cold.  The  story  must  be  true,  because  the  grandmother  of  the 
narrator  had  seen  the  ghost,  and  she  was  never  known  to  tell  an 
untruth.  Often  while  thus  intently  devouring  every  word,  with 
glaring  eyes,  have  I  drawn  my  chair  nearer  and  nearer  to  the 
person  contiguous,  afraid  to  turn  my  head,  lest  the  sheeted  phantom 
should  meet  my  vision.  My  mind  was  haunted  with  the  horrible 
idea,  that  in  a  short  time  the  family  would  retire,  and  I  should  be 
under  the  dreadful  necessity  of  going  up  stairs  to  bed — ay,  and 
alone  too.  Terrible  indeed  were  my  sufferings,  after  listening  on 
those  occasions  to  the  "  old  people's"  stories  of  the  wild  and  the 
wonderful.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  agonies  I  have  endured,  when 
retiring  alone  at  bed-time. 

It  was  on  a  dark  and  stormy  night  in  December,  when  the  spirits 
of  the  blast  were  abroad,  and  the  tempest  moaned  pitifully  round 


348  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

the  turrets  of  the  building,  that  I  sat  listening  to  my  aged  grand- 
mother, who  related  the  story  of  a  ghost  seen  in  a  grave-yard,  and 
on  the  road  that  runs  by  it.  She  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  a 
neighbor,  in  company  with  one  or  two  persons,  when  she  beheld 
an  object  slowly  emerge  from  the  grave-yard,  clothed  in  white.  It 
approached  and  passed  by  her,  when  she  discovered  that  it  was  a 
man  with  no  head.  Oh!  horror;  I  started  from  my  chair  with 
affright,  and  trembled,  for  it  was  near  the  hour  of  bed-time. 

So  soon  as  the  terrible  tale  was  told,  the  company  broke  up 
and  I  went  slowly  creeping  up  stairs  to  bed.  The  storm  had 
passed  over,  and  the  moon  gave  sufficient  light  to  see  objects  dimly 
in  my  own  room  and  in  the  adjoining  one,  there  being  a  door  just 
opposite  my  bed,  which  led  from  the  one  to  the  other.  In  a  very 
few  moments  I  was  undressed  and  in  bed,  covering  my  head 
closely  lest  I  should  see  the  man  with  no  head.  I  vainly  endeavored 
to  shut  out  from  my  mind  the  recollection  of  the  narrative  I  had 
heard.  I  called  up  more  pleasing  memories,  but  they  would  not 
remain— the  man  with  no  head  would  rise  before  my  excited 
imagination,  in  spite  of  all  that  my  judgment  could  suggest.  How 
strange  is  the  notion  of  a  child,  that  covering  his  head  in  bed  will 
protect  him  from  all  evil  influences!  There  I  lay  smothering 
beneath  a  mountain  of  bed-clothes,  while  the  perspiration  was 
pouring  from  me  in  streams,  though  the  weather^Avas  cold.  I 
fancied  myself  in  that  lonely  grave-yard,  and  that  I  was  gazing  at 
the  man  with  no  head,  which  my  grandmother  had  seen  there; 
and  cold  chills  ran  over  me. 

At  length  I  began  to  philosophize  on  the  subject,  and  I  resolved 
that  I  would  no  longer  be  a  coward;  that  I  would  no  longer  yield 
to  the  influence  of  superstition.  But  my  imagination  had  become 
too  much  excited  to  be  calm.  I  threw  back  the  bed-clothes,  and 
oh!  what  was  that  which  appeared  before  my  startled  vision? 
Was  it  a  hobgoblin  or  a  demon?  I  could  not  tell  which.  It  was 
not  the  man  with  no  head,  for  it  had  horns,  and  such  a  head — Oh! 
horror,  it  was  all  head.  There  it  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
adjoining  room,  staring  at  me.  At  first  I  could  see  but  something 
like  eyes,  but  at  last  I  could  plainly  see  its  enormous  eye-balls  roll. 
Oh!  how  horribly  it  looked?  Again,  like  a  terrapin,  I  drew  my 
head  down  close  under  the  bed-clothes,  while  streams  of  perspi- 
ration continued  to  gush  from  every  pore.  But  I  could  not  remain 
covered.  Though  awfully  terrified,  my  curiosity  was  irresistible. 
I  was  bound  by  a  spell  which  I  could  not  resist,  and  throwing  off 
the  covering  I  looked  again  at  the  demon.  I  screamed  with 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  349 

affright,  when  I  beheld  its  horrible  mouth,  with  teeth  two  inches 
long,  grinning  at  me.  Still  I  gazed,  while  a  kind  of  stupor  came 
over  me;  and  while  I  gazed,  the  demon  laughed  and  rolled  its 
large  red  eyes.  The  two  horns  projecting  from  its  monstrous  head 
were  a  foot  or  more  in  length,  and  crooked.  Oh!  I  exclaimed 
to  myself,  what  can  it  be  ?  I  leaped  out  of  the  bed  and  ran  towards 
the  stair-way.  There  was  no  light  below,  for  the  family  were  all 
locked  in  the  sweet  forgetfulness  of  slumber.  I  alone  could  not 
sleep,  and  I  thought  of  Dr.  Young's  beautiful  apostrophe  to  sleep — 

"  He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  fortune  smiles  ;  the  wretched  he  forsakes  ; 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinions  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear." 

Though  but  a  boy,  I  stood  upon  the  stair-way  and  reasoned 
with  myself.  If  I  awaken  the  family,  and  find  that  I  have  been 
frightened  by  some  trifling  cause,  I  shall  be  laughed  at  and  never 
hear  the  end  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  if  I  fly  from  the  scene  and 
never  discover  the  cause,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  sleep  in  that 
room  again.  But  can  I  ever  venture  near  enough  to  that  horrific 
demon  to  examine  it?  I  shuddered  at  the  very  idea  of  such  an 
adventure. 

But  I  again  stole  into  my  room,  as  if  fearful  that  the  ugly 
looking  creature  would  hear  me,  and  plunged  into  my  bed,  every 
moment  expecting  that  the  demon  would  seize  me  by  the  leg. 
Oh!  what  hours  of  agony  did  I  pass!  Though  the  night  was 
cold,  I  felt  it  not.  My  heart  was  beating  like  a  sledge-hammer, 
and  my  head  swam  m'  delirium.  I  looked  again.  There  it  was, 
in  the  same  place;  Us  eyes  still  glaring  at  me,  and  its  terrible  teeth 
grinning  and  gnashing.  I  scanned  its  face  with  a  strange  wild 
stare,  and  discovered  that  it  had  no  nose.  Merciful  fathers!  I 
mentally  ejaculated,  what  a  dreadful  demon  it  must  be  to  have  no 
nose?  Any  thing  but  a  hobgoblin  without  a  nose.  Its  great 
broad  chin  projected  out  like  that  of  an  old  person.  As  I  gazed, 
I  could  see  the  enormous  head  move.  A  trembling  seized  me  in 
every  limb.  My  head  swam  round  like  a  top,  but  still  my  eyes 
were  immovably  fixed  upon  the  demon.  A  charm,  like  that  which 
the  serpent  exerts  over  the  bird,  seemed  to  rivet  my  vision.  I  was 
spell-bound.  I  now  perceived  its  body,  as  the  moon  shone  in  at 
the  window.  It  was  small  where  it  was  united  with  the  enormous 
head,  but  grew  larger  as  it  descended.  But  ft  had  no  legs  or  feet. 
Oh !  horror,  a  demon  without  legs  or  feet  was  too  terrible  to  think 


350  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

of,  and  again  I  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  and  cold  chills  ran  down 
my  back.  Again  I  bolted  out  of  the  room,  but  I  could  not  remain : 
and  I  resolved  to  beard  the  demon,  if  I  perished  in  the  attempt. 
I  re-entered  the  room  and  approached  the  door,  through  which 
I  had  gazed  at  the  goblin ;  but  no  sooner  did  I  get  a  sight  of  its 
glaring  eye-balls  and  long  teeth,  than  I  leaped  back  and  screamed 
with  affright.  Oh!  Lord,  I  cried,  whither  shall  I  fly?  I  cannot 
run  the  risk  of  being  laughed  at,  and  yet  if  I  do  not  discover  the 
reality  I  shall  be  frightened  to  death. 

I  now  summoned  up  all  my  courage,  and  rushed  with  desperation 
upon  the  demon  with  a  large  cane  in  my  hand.  As  I  rushed  upon 
it,  I  struck  it  a  tremendous  blow;  a  wild  yell  proceeded  from  it, 
and  the  next  instant  I  saw  something  leap  forth  at  my  feet.  I 
was  near  fainting  with  affright;  my  head  swam  round;  I  staggered 
backward;  turned  a  complete  summerset  over  a  tub,  and  pitched 
with  my  head  into  an  iron  pot.  The  force  was  so  great,  that  my 
head  was  plunged  into  it  so  far,  that,  with  all  my  strength,  I  could 
not  extricate  myself.  I  screamed  for  help;  I  bellowed  murder; 
but  the  sound,  to  me  like  thunder,  died  away  in  the  pot.  No  one 
heard  me,  for  it  was  now  just  before  day,  that  period  of  the  night 
when  people  sleep  the  soundest.  I  yelled ;  I  bellowed  again  and 
again,  till  my  head  rung  like  a  bell;  but  still  no  one  heard  me. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  could  not  get  the  pot  off,  and  I  could  not 
see  my  way  down.  Besides  the  room  was  full  of  pots,  kettles 
and  pans,  the  surplus  hardware  of  the  store  below. 

Necessity  will  cause  us  to  perform  many  things  of  which  we 
believed  ourselves  incapable,  and  I  groped  my  way  to  the  head  of 
the  stair-way.  But  alas !  all  my  caution  was  unavailing,  for  I  missed 
a  step,  fell,  and  went  rolling  down  stairs,  while  the  pot  struck  and 
rattled  on  every  step  as  I  went,  till  I  reached  the  parlor  carpet. 
During  my  rapid  descent,  I  cried  murder!  murder!  as  loud  as  I 
could  bawl.  My  mother  happened  to  be  lying  awake,  and  hearing 
the  rattling  of  the  iron  pot  and  the  strange  sound  of  my  voice 
in  it,  she  was  much  alarmed,  for  she  knew  not  whether  it  was 
some  one  breaking  into  the  house,  or  myself  walking  in  my  sleep, 
as  I  had  been  known  to  do. 

There  was  a  simultaneous  rushing  into  the  parlor  when  I  picked 
myself  up,  and  a  universal  laugh  broke  forth  when  they  beheld 
me  with  an  iron  pot  over  my  head.  It  required  repeated  trials  to 
to  get  the  pot  off,  when  I  related  the  whole  night's  adventure. 
The  day  was  just  dawning,  and  we  all  repaired  to  the  room  to 
discover  the  cause  of  my  terror;  and,  now,  gentle  reader,  what  do 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  351 

you  suppose  the  buggaboo  was?  It  was  nothing  more  or  less 
than  my  mother's  side-saddle,  on  which  she  had  been  accustomed 
to  ride  to  church,  when  a  girl  in  the  country.  Every  lady's  saddle 
has  two  horns.  There  were  two  red  spots  which  had  been  em- 
broidered in  the  seat,  and  these  my  imagination  transformed  into 
glaring  eyes  rolling  in  their  sockets.  Beneath  these  spots,  a  part 
of  the  saddle  was  worked  or  stitched  with  light  silk  as  an  ornament, 
and  this  my  fancy  made  into  an  enormous  mouth,  filled  with  horrible 
teeth.  The  saddle  was  hung  up  against  the  wall,  and  under  it 
stood  a  large  wooden  churn,  which  answered  for  a  body  to  the 
awful  buggaboo.  When  I  struck  the  saddle,  a  cat  leaped  out  from 
behind  the  churn;  as  I  discovered  that  she  had  some  beautiful 
kittens  concealed  there. 

Never,  while  the  pulse  of  life  continues  to  beat,  shall  I  forget 
that  night  of  terror.  An  age  of  suffering  was  crowded  together 
in  the  space  of  a  few  hours;  and  suffering  the  most  intense,  the 
most  harrowing  to  the  soul.  True,  the  cause  of  my  fear  and  of 
my  agony  was  imaginary;  but  it  was  none  the  less  acute  on  that 
account;  and  should  I  live  a  thousand  years,  I  never  wish  again 
to  see  a  buggaboo  in  my  mother's  side-saddle,  nor  to  wear  another 
iron  pot  over  my  head.  Even  now,  the  very  sight  of  a  side-saddle, 
or  an  iron  pot,  sets  me  to  shuddering  and  gives  me  the  horrors. 


i  Ijnrit  nf  Hiagara, 


FAR  in  the  wilderness  of  woods, 
Where  dark  Niagara's  foaming  floods, 
In  tumbling  torrents  madly  leap 
Adown  the  dark  and  dizzy  steep, 
A  wigwam  stood  in  other  days, 
Where  oft  the  council  fires  blaze, 
The  war-dance  and  the  wilder  yell, 
Told  of  the  victim's  last  farewell. 
Twelve  moons  had  mov'd  in  azure  heav'n 
Since  to  the  chief  a  bride  was  giv'n. 
Tamiroo,  loveliest  of  the  wild, 
Nature's  untaught,  tho'  charming  child. 
The  chief  admired  her  charms,  and  hung 
On  wild  lays  of  her  tuneful  tongue, 


352  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

When  evening,  in  the  echoing  grove, 

Witnessed  his  vows  of  lasting  love. 

Oft  would  he  seek  the  sounding  shore 

When   young  Tamiroo  took  the  oar, 

And  gaze,  as  in  her  light  canoe, 

Across  the  lucid  lake  she  flew, 

A  fairy  gondolier  afar, 

Till  in  the  west,  the  evening  star 

Went  down,  and  the  majestic  moon 

Had  gain'd  in  heav'n  her  highest  noon; 

When  back  again  appear 'd  to  view 

A  sparkling  speck,  her  swift  canoe, 

Till  nearer,  on  his  eager  ear, 

He  heard  the  song  of  the  gondolier, 

Still  stretching  to  the  long  light  oar, 

Till  to  her  chief  she  flew  once  more. 

Happy  the  tide  of  time  roll'd  by 

Tears  fell  not  from  Tamiroo 's  eye, 

Till  in  the  wigwam  at  her  side 

The  chief  had  placed  his  second  bride: 

Then  swell'd  the  sea  of  sorrow  high, 

Then  tears  came  trickling  from  her  eye, 

Turning  to  memory's  light  in  vain, 

With  breaking  heart  and  burning  brain, 

She  saw,  with  jealousy's  alarms, 

Her  rival  in  her  husband's  arms. 

Stung  to  the  heart  with  passion's  pangs, 

And  the  vile  viper  hatred's  fangs, 

She  gaz'd  upon  her  beauteous  boy, 

The  pledge  of  former  love  and  joy. 

And  seizing  him,  with  rapid  flight, 

Fled  from  the  cruel,  killing  sight. 

Swift  to  the  shore  she  onward  flew, 

And  placed  her  boy  in  her  canoe, 

Push'd  from  the  shore,  the  chief  defy'd, 

And  down  the  rapid  river's  tide  0 

The  death-song  sung  of  all  her  loves, 

A  farewell  to  her  woodland  groves, 

To  all  the  joys  of  earlier  life, 

Ere  she  became  the  injured  wife. 

The  chief  stroll 'd  weeping  on  the  strand, 

Beck'ning  her  back  to  love  and  land, 

But  swifter  down  the  flood  she  flew 

And  only  waved  a  last  adieu; 

He  saw  her  o'er  the  high  cliff  hurl'd 

And  o'er  her  bark  the  billows  curl'd, 

Dash'd  headlong  down  where  cascades  pour 

And  loud  eternal  torrents  roar. 

And  now,  'tis  said  when  Luna's  light 

Dispels  the  sombre  shades  of  night. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  353 

Her  light  canoe  is  seen  to  glide, 

Adown  the  rapid  river's  tide, 

And  her  death-song  is  heard  again 

In  many  a  sad  and  sighing  strain. 

The  lonely  traveller  often  sees 

Her  spirit  riding  on  the  breeze, 

Or  plunging  in  her  madness  wild 

Down  the  deep  with  her  screaming  child. 

Again,  'tis  said,  array 'd  in  white, 

She  walks  upon  that  dizzy  height, 

And  wrings  her  hands  and  tears  her  hair, 

Mourning  upon  the  midnight  air. 


dnat  Battle. 

FAME  crowns  the  hero's  dauntless  deed, 

Who  boldly  braves  the  toils  of  war, 
Immortal  glory,  those  that  bleed, 

Receive  from  joyful  Senates  far; 
And  monumental  trophies  stand, 

To  tell  posterity  he  died; 
Bright  hist'ry's  page  o'er  all  the  land, 

Records  his  name  with  boasted  pride. 


Rejoicing  millions  catch  the  sound, 

Of  battles  fought  and  battles  won, 
While  sparkling  glasses  circle  round, 

And  hail  the  deed  so  nobly  done; 
And  thund'ring  cannons  speak  the  praise 

Of  heroes  doomed  to  rise  no  more; 
Great  kingdoms  shout  the  honor'd  lays, 

And  spread  the  news  from  shore  to  shore. 

Old  Greece  could  tell  how  Philip's  son, 

Laid  Persia's  warlike  heroes  low, 
And  how  brave  Sparta's  race  was  run, 

When  kingly  sires  were  sunk  in  woe; 
Yea,  Rome  can  tell  how  Caesar  stood, 

The  vengeance  of  a  Pompey's  might; 
And  how  he  plung'd  thro'  waves  of  blood, 

To  conquest  in  the  glorious  fight. 

France,  Spain  and  Russia  could  rehearse 
A  tale  of  bloody  deeds  and  fears; 

Yea,  wilder  than  the  muse's  verse, 
They  could  unfold  the  scroll  of  years, 

45 


354  "WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

And  tell  of  Bonaparte  with  rage, 

What  time  the  dauntless  warrior  came, 

Sweeping  resistless  fortune's  stage, 
To  crown  his  never-dying  fame. 

And  Britain  could  roll  back  with  pride, 

The  cloudy  veil  from  valor's  son, 
And  point  to  bleeding  freedom's  side, 

Staunched  by  immortal  Washington; 
And  he  could  tell  of  heroes  brave, 

Of  Wellington's  and  Nelson's  arms, 
Yea,  point  to  Spain's  inglorious  grave, 

And  triumph  in  her  war's  alarms. 

But  there  are  deeds  more  glorious  still, 

That  teach  the  bosom  how  to  feel: 
Tis  when  man  curbs  his  head-strong  will 

And  stops  ambition's  fiery  zeal; 
Yea,  this  is  fame  not  bought  with  pelf, 

When  man  can  govern  unconfined, 
And  rule  that  mighty  man  called  self, 

By  the  great  battle  of  the  mind. 


YE  sons  of  dire  contention  strong, 
Ye  sons  of  sacrilege  and  wrong; 
Ye  factious  sons  who  wield  the  rod 
Where  intrigue  makes  the  demi-god, 
Go  view  in  pity  Poland's  doom, 
And  drop  a  tear  upon  her  tomb, 
For  she  was  powerful  and  great, 
But  faction  seal'd  her  hapless  fate. 

Ye  sons  of  mock  religion's  pow'r, 
Remember  well  that  luckless  hour, 
And  ye  disbenching  churches  guard 
Against  that  cause  which  now  has  marr'd 
The  peace  of  Poland's  kingdom  bright, 
And  sunk  her  fame  in  endless  night, 
For  ah,  she  can  arise  no  more, 
Oppression  covers  all  her  shore. 

The  Russian  standard  now  doth  wave, 
And  Prussia's  banner  o'er  her  grave; 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  355 

The  Austrian  monarch  treads  her  plain, 

Which  shall  with  flow'rs  ne'er  bloom  again, 

And  her  fair  genius  flies  afar 

To  shun  the  dreadful  toils  of  war; 

Alas!  those  sons  who  plough 'd  the  waves 

Are  now  degraded  into  slaves. 

The  sons  of  rapine  fearless  came 
To  cloud  fair  Poland's  boasted  fame; 
The  reeking  dagger,  bloody  dart, 
Drank  deep  the  crimson  of  each  heart, 
Till  o'er  her  fair  and  boasted  shore 
Were  seen  the  streams  of  human  gores 
Till  o'er  the  ashes  of  the  Pole 
Was  hung  the  drapery  of  the  soul. 

Too  late,  alas!  the  fell  disease, 
Was  found  to  give  distress  its  ease; 
The  plunge  was  deep  and  sad  the  sore 
Which  must  exist  for  evermore. 
Poor  Stanislaus  has  mourn 'd  his  doom, 
And  sighing  sought  the  sable  tomb, 
Where  he  shall  dream  of  joys  no  more, 
Nor  of  the  grief  of  Poland's  shore. 

And  may  not  fair  Columbia  won, 
By  factious  monsters  be  undone? 
May  not  the  wealth  of  mighty  few, 
Egregiously  her  fame  undo? 
Or  may  not  anti-monarch's  own 
The  legal  right  as  Albion's  throne? 
Great  God  forbid  Columbia's  bloom 
Should  ever  find  a  Poland's  tomb. 


Whene'er  1  see  a  hypocrite, 

Professing  love  to  God  and  man, 
And  view  him  read  the  Holy  Writ, 

The  truths  of  charity  to  scan; 
Then  view  him  shun  the  needy  poor> 

Nor  with  the  sorrowful  condole, 
I  set  a  black  mark  on  his  door, 

And  call  it  palsy  of  the  soul. 


356  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARD. 


THESE  lines  are  inscribed  to  (he  two  Misses  SKINNER,  of  the  Wilmington  Cemetery, 
who  presented  me  some  Autumn  flowers. 


OH!  melancholy  season  of  the  year, 

How  sad  and  solemn  is  thy  tale  of  grief; 
A  lesson  in  thy  mournful  winds  I  hear, 

A  sermon  read  in  every  falling  leaf. 

>- 
The  voice  of  buried  years,  I  hear  in  thee 

Time's  footsteps,  as  he  steals  my  hopes  away; 
The  sighing  of  each  blast  but  brings  to  me,  ^  Jk  *  + 

The  recollection  of  my  own  decay, 

f  •  '  .••'* 

Ah!  when  1  look  back  on  the  tide  of  time, 

And  see  the  ruins  of  my  earlier  years; 
The  wrecks  of  happiness  and  hopes  sublime, 

I  sigh,  and  sadly  turn  away  m  tears. 

»   '•  (••  ~'Jt-+ 

As  fall  the  leaves  arownL.me,  one,;jjy  one, 

So  have  the  friends  of  yoyth  dppp'd  from  my  side; 
Like  wither'd  leaves  they  to  the  grave  have  gone, 

Like  faded  flow'rs  they  dwindled,  droop'd  and  died. 

But,  Autumn,  thou  hast  charms — in  thy  lone  bowers, 

Pale  contemplation  loves  to  muse  alone; 
On  joys  departed,  and  on  by-gone  hours, 

When  o'er  the  heart  hope's  radiant  rainbow  shone. 

Oh!  when  upon  these  Autumn  flow'rs  I  gaze, 

I  think  of  hopes  that  in  oblivion  sleep; 
And  from  the  joyous  dream  of  other  days 

I  wake,  alas!  to  wander  and  to  weep. 

There  is  a  gloomy  grandeur  in  thy  scene, 

Oh!  Autumn — in  thy  golden  tinted  woods; 
Thy  mournful  voice,  and  withering  leaves,  1  ween, 

And  sullen,  solemn  silence  of  thy  floods* 

But  far,  far  more  I  love  the  voice  of  Spring, 
Emblem  of  youth,  and  mother  of  fair  flow'rs; 

I  love  her  brooks  and  bow'rs,  and  birds  that  sing 
A  welcome  to  sweet  Summer's  joyous  hours. 


LOVE  A  LA  MODE, 


OR 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  Oh  !  many  a  shaft,  at  random  sent, 
Finds  mifrk  the  archer  little  meant ; 
And  many  a  word  at  random  spoken* 
May  soothe  or  wound  a  heart  that's  broken. " 


H !  mother,  dear  mother,  do  not,  I  conjure  you, 
say  anything  more  to  me  on  that  subject.  I 
cannofbear  it— ^indeed,  indeed  it  will  drive  me 
to  distraction." 

"  Why, pharles,  Charles,  what  do  you  mean? 
I  cannot  comprehend  you  of  late. — You,  who 
but  a  short  time  ago,  were  gay  and  happy,  and 
the  life  of  every  circle,  have  now  become  gloomy, 
abstracted,  and  illy  inclined  to  bear  the  least 
raillery.  Come,  come,  Charles,"  continued  his 
mother,  after  a  pause,  "cheer  up,  for  you  can- 
not but  confess  that  Caroline  Bently  is  the 
loveliest  of  her  sex;  and  then  her  splendid  for- 
tune—" 

"  But,  I  do  not  want  her  fortune,  mother." 
"Do  not  want  her  fortune!"  exclaimed  his 
mother,  with  surprise,  as  she  suddenly  dropped  his  hand.     "Why  ?" 
"Mother,  it  is  useless  to  say  why." 

[NOTE. — A  few  days  ago,  I  received  a  letter  from  a  charming  and  accom- 
plished lady,  at  Pennington,  New  Jersey,  in  which  she  requested,  for  a  friend, 
"a  definition  of  the  word  love,  or  the  nature  and  effects  of  it."  She  says — "  I 
did  not  feel  adequate  to  the  task  myself,  and  knowing  no  person  who  could  so 
well  define  the  term,  or  write  a  disquisition  on  it,  as  yourself,  I  thought  it 
would  not  be  amiss  to  request  you  to  do  it.  I  fancy  I  can  see  you  lay  down 


358  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"But,  Charles,  my  dear  son,  I  insist  on  your  answering  why 
you  do  not  want  the  fortune  of  the  loveliest  girl  in  America,  and 
one,  too,  before  whose  beauty  the  proudest  and  the  wealthiest  of 
the  land  have  bowed  down.  What  objection  can  you  have  to  so 
lovely  a  creature,  who  has  rejected  more  than  one  advantageous 
match  on  your  account?" 

"I  have  no  particular  objection,"  returned  Charles,  with  a  con- 
fused and  dejected  look.  "  Miss  Bently,  I  own,  is  beautiful,  ac- 
complished and  wealthy,  but — but — " 

"  But  what,  dear  Charles  ?"  enquired  his  mother,  gently  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"I  do  not  love  her,  mother." 

"Do  not  love  her!  Do  not  love  her  v^  exclaimed  Madame  De 
Beaumont,  drawing  back  from  Charles,  as  if  a  serpent  had  crossed 
her  path.  "You  do  not  love  the  rich,  the  beautiful,  the  accom- 
plished, the  angelic  Caroline  Bently,  on  whom  I  have  set  my 
whole  heart ! — You  do  not  love  her !  Upon  my  word,  this  is 
gratitude  for  all  my  care  and  kindness,"  and  as  she  spoke  the  last 
words,  she  bent  upon  him  a  look  of  withering  scorn,  that  pierced 
his  very  soul. 

"Forgive  me,  dearest  mother;  I  cannot  help  it." 

"Away,  you  ungrateful  wretch — you  cannot  help  it!"  repeated 
his  mother,  with  bitter  irony.  "You  cannot  help  it,  but  you  can 
prate  for  hours  about  devotion  of  the  heart,  and  the  purity  of  love, 
and — and — " 

"Nay,  be  calm,  dear  mother;  sit  down,  and  let  us  reason  to- 
gether. Love,  courtship  and  marriage,  are  three  steps  in  life  which 
should  be  well  considered  before  they  are  taken,  for  they  lead  to 
an  earthly  heaven,  or  an  earthly  hell." 

"Oh!  yes,  you  are  beginning  with  your  philosophy  to  prove 
that  black  is  white,  and  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  prate  about 
simple,  disinterested,  unaffected  love  in  a  cottage,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing ;  but  you  cannot  love  Carojine  Bently,  the  loveliest,  the 
richest,  and  most  accomplished  of  high-born  ladies. — Mark  me, 

,»    , 

your  pipe,  with  all  possible  surprise,  and  in  titter  amazement,  read  such  a  re- 
quest from  me;  but  you  must  not  think,  though  years  have  rolled  by,  'and 
mingled  with  the  dim  ages  of  the  past,'  that  I  have  forgotten  the  pleasant  hours 
that^we  have  spent  in  your  own  loved  home.  If  you  can  conveniently  comply 
with  my  request,  and  choose  to  publish  a  Disquisition  on  Love,  you  will 
oblige,"  &c. 

Such  was  the  lady's  request,  and  believing  that  a  tale  would  better  elucidate 
the  subject  than  an  essay,  I  have,  consequently,  chosen  that  manner,  under  the 
title  of  LOVE  A  LA  MODE,  or  THE  BOATMAN'S  DAUGHTER.] 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  35(.) 

Charles,"  and  she  shook  her  finger  as  she  spoke,  "I  have  seen 
you,  of  late,  wasting  your  time  with  that  poor,  awkward,  graceless 
thing,  the  boatman's  daughter — if  you  ever  dare  to  bestow  one 
look  of  favor  on  her,  you  shall  rue  the  day  that  you  did  it." 

"  It  is  useless  to  denounce  vengeance  on  your  son,  my  dear 
mother,  for  to  tell  you  the  unvarnished  truth,  I  cannot  love  Caro- 
line; and  would  you  wish  to  see  me  wed  a  woman  I  do  not  love, 
and  drag  out  a  life  of  bickering,  disgust  and  misery!" 

Charles  started  at  the  threat  of  his  mother,  but  she  did  not  mark 
his  emotion. 

"  My  dear  child,"  continued  his  mother,  in  a  softer  tone,  and 
with  a  sunnier  look,  in  the  hope  of  winning  him  over,  "  I  cannot 
see  the  reason  that  you  reject  so  charming  a  girl,  who  loves  you 
devotedly;  who  only  awaits  your  wish  to  become  your  wedded 
wife,  and  for  whose  smiles  many  a  heart  aches." 

"Dearest  mother,  I  have  ever  looked  up  to  you  for  guidance  in 
all  things  but  that  of  choosing  a  wife." 

"And  why  not  in  that,  Charles?" 

"For  the  best  reason  in  the  world — it  is  impossible  to  love 
whom  we  please — love  is  altogether  involuntary." 

"Believe  me,  Charles,  such  doctrine  is  idle  and  foolish." 

"  Stop,  my  dear  mother;  did  I  not  hear  you  say  that  to  aggra- 
vate my  father,  when  he  was  your  lover,  you  endeavored  with  all 
your  might  to  love  his  rival,  or  rather  his  opponent,  and  that  the 
harder  you  tried,  the  less  you  loved  him  ?" 

"Pshaw!  that  was  mere  idle  talk,"  answered  Madam  De  Beau- 
mont, endeavoring  in  vain  to  hide  her  confusion  :  "  but  what  proof 
have  you,  Charles,  that  love  is  involuntary  ?" 

"Ample  proof,  madame.  If  it  be  not  involuntary,  why  is  it  that 
the  heart  is  carried  captive  at  the  first  glance,  at  the  very  first 
sight  of  the  person,  before  we  have  had  time  to  form  any  estimate 
of  the  character;  before  we  have  had  even  time  to  examine  the 
form  and  features:  before  we  have  formed  the  wish  to  love,  and  in 
fact,  before  we  have  discovered  that  we  are  in  love  ?  How  many 
persons  fall  in  love,  and  go  sighing  in  solitude,  while  they  wonder 
what  in  the  world  can  be  the  matter  with  them? — How  could  that 
be,  if  love  be  voluntary,  the  creature  of  our  will  ?" 

"Very  good,  Mr.  Sophist,"  said  his  mother  sneeringly,  and 
with  a  perplexed  look ;  "  but  can  you  prove  that  any  man  might 
not,  almost  without  an  effort,  fall  in  love  with  Caroline  ?" 

"It  is  true,"  returned  Charles,  forcing  a  smile,  and  using  what 
the  French  call  a  double  entendte;  '-'anyone  might  fall  in  love 


360  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

with  her  without  an  effort;  for,  as  I  said,  love  is  involuntary.  The 
fact  is,  to  esteem  a  person,  we  must  in  the  first  place  examine 
qualities,  and  appreciate  the  person  for  the  possession  of  those 
qualities ;  but  we  often  love  without  this  routine,  and  hence  love 
is  involuntary.  We  love  without  thinking  or  wishing  to  do  so, 
therefore  it  is  involuntary." 

"But,  my  son,  can  you  not  look  upon  all  the  various  charms  of 
Caroline,  both  of  person  and  property,  and  cultivate  a  love  for  her?" 

"That,"  said  Charles,  musing,  "would  only  be  the  esteem  I 
mentioned,  and  there  is  the  difference  between  esteem  and  love. 
Reason  and  love  are  ever  at  variance — there  is  no  sympathy  be- 
tween them.  I  respect,  I  esteem  Miss  Caroline  Bently,  as  much 
as  any  man,  for  my  esteem  is  the  conseqilfence  of  reasoning  upon 
her  good  qualities ;  but  I  do  not  love  her,  because  love  is  not  the 
offspring  of  either  reason  or  esteem.  We  often  love  the  object 
whose  qualities  and  character  we  detest.  In  this  way  do  we  ac- 
count for  the  many  strange  matches  that  take  place  in  the  world — 
love  is  involuntary,  and  the  heart  is  fixed  upon  one  who  is  detested 
by  all  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  are  so  flippant  at  defining  things,  will  you 
favor  me  with  the  proper  meaning  of  the  word,  Love?" 

"  My  dear  mother,  love  is  the  electric  fluid  of  the  heart.  It  is  a 
species  of,,  mysterious  Mesmerism,  or  sympathy  of  the  soul. 
Though  we  cannot  will  our  souls  to  love,  yet  when  one  heart  is 
charged,  it  can  by  sympathy,  communicate  its  power  gradually  to 
another  negative  heart,  as  is  the  case  in  courtship.  Love.is  truly  a 
mysterious  power.  We  can  no  more  will  ourselves  to  love  a  hu- 
man being,  than  we  can  will  our  hearts  to  feel,  or  be  filled  with  the 
love  of  God.  Friendship  is  founded  on  esteem,  and  is  cultivated." 

"Yes,  Charles,  and  love  is  founded  on  esteem,  and  if  you  do 
not  love  the  lovely  Caroline,  it  is  ytmr  own  fault." 

"Friendship,"  returned  Charles,  "is  the  cultivated  flower  of  the 
garden,  while  love  is  the  wild  flower  springing  spontaneously  in 
the  forest  or  lonely  wild.  Love  is  a  mysterious  sympathy  between 
two  souls,  which  is  felt,  but  cannot  be  described  or  understood." 

At  this  moment  some  company  entered  the  parlor,  and  inter- 
rupted the  conversation,  much  to  the  relief  of  Charles. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  361 


CHAPTER  II. 

"  In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad : 
It  wearies  me— you  say  it  wearies  you, 
But  how  I  caught  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn."—  SHAKSPEARE. 

)HE  personages  spoken  of  in  the  former  chapter,  were 
part  of  a  very  wealthy  and  aristocratic  family  from  Eng- 
land, who,  during  the  period  of  which  I  write,  resided 
in  a  very  splendid  mansion  in  the  suburbs  of  Wilming- 
ton. Madame  De  Beaumont  was  the  wife  of  a  French  gentleman, 
who,  being  of  an  easy,  good  nature.,  resigned  nearly  all  his  pre- 
rogatives to  his  better  half,  satisfied  with  petticoat  government, 
provided  he  were  suffered  to  jog  on  in  his  own  pleasures,  which 
consisted  mainly  in  literary  and  scientific  pursuits.  When  seated 
in  his  library,  surrounded  by  his  books,  he  cared  not  how  other 
people  amused  themselves,  so  that  they  did  not  interfere  with  his 
philosophic  experiments  and  literary  researches.  Ma  It  Tie  De 
Beaumont  had  imbibed  from  English  society  all  that  spirit  of  ex- 
clusiveness,'  which  is  found  among  the  nobility;  for  her  great 
wealth  and  high  connections  had  given  her  a  passport  to  the  ultra 
aristocratic  circles,  and  there  was  no  feeling  of  prid.e  in  her 
bosom,  paramount  to  thajt  of  wealth,  but  that  of  birth.  Her  son 
Charles,  a  handsome,  intellectual  and  intelligent  young  man,  was 
the  idol  of  her  soul,  and  she*  had  long  cherished  the  idea  of  a 
union  between  him  and  his  cousin  Caroline,  whose  only  parent, 
her  father,  had  left  her  with  large  English  possessions,  to  the  care 
of  Madame  De  Beaumont. 

Caroline  Bently  was  truly  a  beautiful  young  lady,  if  silks,  satins, 
diamonds,  and  every  adornment  could  render  her  such.  She  held 
a  high  head,  and  had  long  secretly  entertained  the  hope  that 
Madame  De  Beaumont  would  prove  successful  in  winning  over 
Charles  to  the  desired  union.  She  loved  Charles  deeply,  which 
passion  had  grown  with  her  growth,  and  strengthened  with  her 
strength.  Charles  De  Beaumont  had  imbibed  very  different  no- 
tions from  those  of  his  mother;  but  knowing  her  imperious  will, 
he  had  endeavored  to  cultivate  an  affection  for  Caroline,  though 
he  found,  at  last,  that  the  more  he  strove  to  love  her,  the  less  was 
his  heart  inclined  to  bear  the  silken  chain.  Charles  detested  the 
hollow-hearted,  conventional  forms  of  society,  and  had  no  admi- 
ration for  that  artificial  beauty  which  is  so  often  found  in  high  life. 
46 


362  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

He  loved  nature  and  despised  art,  when  intended  to  disguise  na- 
ture. He  admired  the  chaste  loveliness  of  the  wild  flower  of  the 
field  or  woodland,  more  than  the  forced  and  sickly,  though  more 
gorgeous  rose  of  the  hot-house.  In  short,  he  loved  natural  sim- 
plicity, and  "beauty  unadorned,"  as  it  is  sometimes  found  in 
humble  life,  in  preference  to  that  gaudy,  studied,  and  ornamental 
beauty,  which  is  found  in  the  sumptuous  halls  of  grandeur.  Never 
were  mother  and  son  more  dissimilar.  Madame  De  Beaumont 
loved  wealth,  pomp  and  grandeur,  and  prided  herself  on  her  birth. 
She  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  her  son  should  even  cultivate  a 
friendship  for  one  who  was  beneath  him  in  birth  and  fortune. 
Charles,  on  the  contrary,  was  inclined  to  value  persons  according 
to  their  inherent  sterling  qualities,  and  not  according  to  extraneous 
circumstances.  He  could  prize  beauty,  though  found  in  a  cottage, 
and  give  virtue  its  value,  though  seen  under  an  humble  garb.  The 
great  fault  with  Charles  was  that  he  acted  too  much  from  the  im- 
pulse of  the  moment,  without  stopping  to  consider  the  propriety 
of  the  movement,  or  giving  the  subject  that  due  degree  of  atten- 
tion that  is  often  necessary. 

Not  far  from  the  Delaware  River,  and  about  equi-distant  from 
the  Brandywine,  there' stood,  at  that  time,  a  little  cottage,  em- 
bosomed in  fruit  trees  and  flowering  vines,  not  a  vestige  of  which 
now  remains.  The  tooth  and  the  tide  of  time  have  undermined 
it,  and  it  has  long  since  passed  away,  with  all  its  joyous  days, 
happy  hearts,  and  moonlight  scenes — passed  away  like  the  hopes 
of  those  hearts. 

In  that  little  shady  cottage,  surrounded  with  flowers,  bloomed  a 
rose  as  beautiful  and  as  blissful  as  any  that  ever  bloomed  or  was 
blasted.  It  was  the  happy  home  of  Johnny,  the  Boatman,  by 
which  name  he  was  universally  known  in  Wilmington  and  the  sur- 
rounding country.  His  family  consisted  of  but  himself,  his  wife, 
and  daughter  Jane,  the  last  of  whom  was  idolized  by  her  old 
father  and  mother,  and  many  a  sportsman  when  passing,  called 
for  a  drink  of  water,  as  an  excuse  for  feasting  his  eyes  on  the 
purely  natural  charms  of  Jane,  for  she  was  not  indebted  to  art  for 
one  line  or  lineament  of  her  beauty.  Jane  was  truly  the  child  of 
nature.  She  was  but  sixteen,  and  often  wondered  why  the  gay 
and  grand  young  gentlemen  from  town,  as  she  called  them,  lin- 
gered so  long  to  admire  the  flowers  around  the  cottage,  little 
knowing,  poor  girl,  that  she  was  the  beautiful  flower  that  attracted 
their  gaze. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  363 

Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  happier  family  than  that  of  old 
Johnny,  the  boatman.  They  were  humble,  and  their  wants  were 
few,  which  were  easily  supplied  by  the  little  trade  the  old  man 
carried  on  by  means  of  his  boat.  All  that  he  made,  over  and 
above  his  expenses,  was  carefully  laid  up  as  a  marriage  portion  for 
Jane,  should  some  worthy  fellow  claim  her  hand. 

Jane  Wordley  was  cast  in  the  loveliest  mould  of  nature.  There 
was  nothing  artificial  in  her  beauty;  all  was  natural,  whether  in 
relation  to  her  mind  or  person.  In  disposition,  she  was  gentle  as 
a  fawn,  and  lively  as  the  birds  that  sang  their  matin  hymns  around 
the  cottage.  Her  large,  melting  and  melancholy  eye,  that  was  as 
dark  and  dazzling  as  that  of  the  gazelle,  seemed  to  possess  a 
magic,  Mesmeric  power,  and  to  pierce  the  soul  at  every  glance. 
There  was  a  peculiar  expression  in  her  face,  that  few  could  behold 
without  feeling  its  influence  on  the  heart.  Her  form  was  of  the 
middle  stature,  light  and  graceful,  and  her  auburn  hair  hung  in 
clustering  curls  round  a  neck  so  fair,  that  it  looked  semi-trans- 
parent, like  wax. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  morning  in  May,  that  Charles  De  Beau- 
mont anxiously  stole  away  from  the  splendid  parlor,  in  which 
Madame  De  Beaumont  and. Caroline  were  seated,  to  lose  amid  the 
solitudes  of  nature,  the  recollection  of  the  importunities  of  his 
mother,  who  seemed  fixed  irrevocably  in  her  determination  that 
Charles  should  marry  Ca"rolftie.  Charles  had  endeavored,  with  all 
his  soul,  to  love  his  cousin  Caroline,  and  finding  efforts  vain,  was 
now  ever  studious  to  avoid  a  contact.  He  wandered,  with  his 
gun,  over  fields,  meadows,  and  through  woodlands,  musing  upon 
the  unhappy  situation  in  which  he  was  placed. 

Wearied  at  length  with  his  pursuit,  he  stopped  at  the  cottage  of 
the  boatman,  little  expecting  to  behold  one  who  was  destined  to 
decide  his  fate;  for  he  knew  nothing  of  Johnny,  the  boatman,  or 
any  of  his  happy  little  family.  Just  as  he  approached  the  cottage, 
his  eye  fell  upon  the  figure  of  Jane,  as  she  stood  twining  the  vines 
of  an  arbor.  Their  eyes  met,  and  in  an  instant  Charles  felt  that 
his  fate  was  decided.  Like  an  electric  spark,  that  glance  went  to 
his  heart,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  the  beau  ideal  of  his  mind ; 
that  she  was  the  very  realization  of  his  dream  of  natural,  simple, 
unaffected  beauty.  To  sum  up  all,  Charles  loved  Jane  at  the  first 
glance.  He  loved  her  as  all  love  who  act  from  impulse — he  loved 
her  with  that  deep,  devoted,  enthusiastic  madness,  that  those  love 
who  calculate  not  consequences. — Often  did  he  steal  away  from 
his  fair  cousin,  the  gaudy  and  gorgeously  attired  Caroline,  to  feast 


364  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

his  eyes  on  the  simple,  natural  graces  of  Jane,  whose  beauty  was 
in  no  degree  indebted  to  art.  So.  secret  were  his  visits,  that  his 
haughty  mother  never  dreamed  that  he  had  given  his  heart  to  the 
humWe  Jane,  whom  she  had  seen  once  or  twice,  when  passing  the 
cottage  in  her  carriage.  How  would  her  proud  spirit  have  spurned 
him,  could  she  have  even  supposed  it  possible  that  her  son,  the 
heir  of  her  wealth,  and  the  descendant  of  the  high  family  of  the 
Spencete, would  stoop  to  woo  a  poor  boatman's  daughter!  But 
such  vvss  indeed  the  fact,  and  e*Very  time  Charles  visited  the  beau- 
tiful Jane,  every  moonlight  interview  they  had,  added  strength  to 
the  affection  he  cherished.  Enthusiastic  in  his  nature,  he  was  not 
only  charmed,  but  enchanted  with  the  simplicity,  the  pure,  natural 
grace,  and  unaffected  gentleness  of  the  fair  Jane.  With  only  one 
dread  on  his  mind,  the  dread  of  discovery  by  his  mother,  he  luxu- 
riated in  his  love  for  the  boatman's  daughter,  while  he  scorned  the 
petty  distinctions  of  society.  From  month  to  month  he  stole  in- 
terviews with  Jane,  and  time,  with  its  golden  hours,  fled  joyously 
away. 


CHAPTER  III. 
A 

«  Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  wooed : 
Was  ever  woman  in  this  humor  won  ?" — S HAKSPE ARE. 

OR  shame,  Charles!"  said  Madam  De  Beaumont,  one 
morning,  as  Charles  came  into  his  mother's  room- 
"  You  are  unworthy  of  the  lofty  blood  of  the  Spencers 
that  flows  in  your  veins.  There  is  your  cousin  Caro- 
line, now  in  the  parlor,  who  has  been  looking  for  your  coming 
hour  after  hour." 

Charles  started  and  colored  as  he  spoke.  "My  dear  mother, 
why  do  you  harp  upon  that  subject  so  often?  I  beg  of  you  to — " 
"  Harp  upon  that  subject !  Upon  my  word,  that  is  a  pretty 
speech  to  be  addressed  by  a  gallant  young  gentleman  to  his 
mother!  Now,  sir,  I  shall  plead  with  you  no  longer,  but  use  that 
authority  that  good  fortune  has  delegated  to  me.  Once  for  all,  I 
wish  to  know  whether  you  love  Caroline  ?'  As  Madame  De  Beau- 
mont spoke,  she  fixed  her  gaze  upon  him  sternly,  as  if  she  would 
search  his  very  soul. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  365 

"Mother,"  replied  Charles,  with  a  downcast  look,  "I  do  not, 
I  cannot  love  my  cousin  Caroline.  I  respect  her,  and  feel  a  warm 
friendship  for  her,  but  I  do  not,  I  cannot  love  her;  for,  as  I  told 
you  before,  that  passion  is  involuntary. — We  are  not  masters  of 
our  own  affections,  and  we  cannot  command  the  heart,  to  that 
matter,  any  more  than  we  can  command  it  in  its  throbbing." 

"Oh!  yes,  all  very  pretty — some  more  of  your  high  college-bred 
reasoning — some  more  of  your  sophistry;  but  I  tell  you,  sir,  it 
won't  do.  You  must,  you  shallSove  your  cousin,  and  you  shall 
marry  her,  too,  or  you  shall  rue  it  the  longest  day  you  have  to  live." 

Madame  De  Beaumont  exhibited  temper  and  determination,  in 
her  countenance  and  compressed  lips,  as  she  spoke,  while  Charles 
appeared  irresolute  and  perplexed. 

"  Dearest  mother,"  he  at  length  said,  seeming  to  be  in  a  musing 
mood,  as  if  something  pressed  heavily  on  his  spirit,  "  it  is  my 
desire  to  do  you  honor,  and  to  acquiesce  in  yaur  wishes;  but,  in 
a  case  where  a  life  of  happiness  or  misery  is  concerned,  I  must 
strenuously  insist  on  choosing  the  person  whom  I  think  most 
likely  to  conduce  to  my  happiness." 

"  But,  pray,  who  is  more  likely — nay,  who  has  greater  means 
to  conduce  to  your  happiness,  than  your  cousin  Caroline?  Is  she 
not  mistress  of  an  ample  fortune?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  I  own  she  is." 

"Is  she  not  accomplished?'' 

"She  is." 

"And  amiable?" 

"  Yes,  she  is." 

"And  very  beautiful?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  what  more  in  the  name  of  heaven  would  you  ask  in  any 
lady,  to  render  you  happy?" 

"Much  more,  mother." 

"  And,  sir,  pray  what  is  it?" 

"  Why,  mother,  she  Jacks  one  thing,  without  the  possession  of 
which,  I  will  marry  no  woman.  If  my  cousin  Caroline  possessed 
that,  I  would  consent  to  marry  her  this  hour;  but  without  it,  as 
she  is,  I  would  not  marry  her  though  she  were  made  of  virgin  gold, 
and  every  hair  a  diamond,  of  greater  value  than  that  of  the  Pitt 
diamond  of  England,  or  of  that  in  the  cabinet  of  Portugal." 

"  In  the  name  of  all  that  is  valuable,"  exclaimed  his  mother, 
"  what  can  that  great  thing  be,  that  she  does  not  possess?" 


366  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"My  own  heart,  mother,  and  would  you  bid  me  marry  a  woman 
I  do  not  lover  Would  you,  for  the  sake  of  mere  lucre,  have  me 
to  drag  out  a  life  of  misery  and  disgust?" 

"Disgust  indeed!"  replied  his  mother,  scornfully.  "And  is 
there  any  disgust  in  Caroline?  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  you 
should  be  proud  that  she  stoops  to  an  alliance  with  you,  after  such 
ungallant  conduct." 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  mother,  for  I  am  truly  sorry  that  I  cannot 
love  my  cousin  Caroline,  for  if  I  could,  her  wealth  would  not  in- 
fluence me  in  the  least.  If  I  loved  her,  I  would  as  soon  marry 
her  without  it  as  with  it." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  sir.  If  you  mean  to  say  that  you 
would  marry  a  poor  obscure  girl,  and  bring  a  tag-rag  into  the 
family  of  the  Spencers  to  disgrace  it,  I  bid  you  beware !  I  would 
rather  see  your  head  under  the  fence — I  would  rather  follow  you 
to  the  grave,  than  see  you  wed  beneath  you." 

"But,  mother,  there  is  wealth  enough  in  the  family." 

Madame  De  Beaumont  had  heretofore  been  endeavoring  to 
suppress  her  temper,  but  now  it  boiled  over. 

"Don't  presume,  sir,  to  calculate  on  the  wealth  of  the  family, 
for  you  must  know,  sir,  that  there  is  none  in  the  family  but  what 
is  mine — my  own  maiden  property — and  now  mark  me,  sir.  If 
you  presume  to  marry  any  poor,  low-bred  girl,  as  your  romantic 
notions  of  simplicity  seem  to  incline  you" — she  spoke  the  last 
words  with  the  most  scornful  emphasis — "  you  shall  never  touch 
one  penny.  No,  sir.  if  you  marry  any  other  than  your  cousin 
Caroline,  of  whom  you  are  not  now  really  worthy,  you  may,  in 
the  language  of  the  play,  'go,  get  brats,  and  starve.'" 

This  language,  from  his  mother,  roused  the  spirit  of  Charles, 
and,  as  he  spoke,  his  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  Your  threats,  Madame,"  said  he,  "  will  never  alter  my  determi- 
nation, where  a  compliance  with  your  wishes  would  doom  me  to 
a  life  of  misery.  Oh!  that  a  mother,  for  the  sake  of  mere  lucre, 
should  consent  to  blast  the  happiness  of  her  child !  Give  me 
poverty  with  contentment,  rather  than  splendor  with  an  aching 
heart." 

"Ungrateful  son!"  exclaimed  Madame  De  Beaumont,  bursting 
into  tears  from  mere  vexation.  "  Is  this  the  return  you  make  for 
all  my  care — for  all  my  anxiety?" 

"  Be  calm,  my  mother,  and  let  us  reason  together.  A  subject 
of  so  much  importance,  should  not  be  lightly  considered.  Do 
you,  can  you  wish  to  see  your  son  pining  in  wretchedness?" 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  367 

"No,  my  son,"  said  Madame  De  Beaumont,  softening  in  her 
tone  and  temper,  "  it  is  my  desire  to  see  you  happy,  that  prompts 
me  to  induce  you  to  wed  Caroline,  who  sincerely  loves  you,  and 
whose  feelings  have  been  often  wounded  at  your  seeming  coldness. 
She  fancies  that  you  avoid  her,  and  has  noticed  the  sigh,  that 
swelled  your  bosom,  at  the  moment  that  she  was  endeavoring  to 
excite  happy  thoughts  in  your  mind.  Come,  Charles,  throw  to 
the  winds  these  foolish,  romantic  notions,  you  have,  of  love  in 
a  cottage ;  of  natural  beauty,  simplicity  and  such  nonsense,  and 
be  a  man.  Go  into  the  parlor  to  your  lovely  cousin;  fall  gracefully 
on  one  knee  before  her,  as  your  father  once  bowed  before  me; 
take  her  fair  hand,  and  while  you  ask  her  forgiveness  for  your 
former  neglect,  tell  her  you  love  her,  like  a  man." 

"  Oh!  mother,  I  cannot,"  exclaimed  Charles,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

"You  cannot!  There  it  is  again.  Had  ever  mother  such  a 
son !  But  you  must,  you  shall  be  happy,  against  your  will — come 
along,  I'll  lead  you  to  the  charmer." 

Madame  De  Beaumont  took  Charles  playfully  by  the  arm,  and 
he  followed  her  mechanically  to  the  parlor.  He  had  never  been 
so  stubborn  and  resolute  before,  and  his  mother  could  not  account 
for  his  increased  sadness  of  late.  Fascinated  by  the  native  sim- 
plicity, the  natural  beauty,  and  unaffected  manners  of  the  boatman's 
daughter,  he  loved  her  to  madness;  and  as  he  admired  her  for 
these  perfections,  as  he  fancied  them,  the  artificial  beauty,  (he 
affected  manners,  and  conventional  notions  of  Caroline,  disgusted 
him.  Caroline  saw  that  Charles,  within  a  few  months,  had  under- 
gone a  great  change.  He  had  always  been  distant  to  her,  but 
now  he  had  lost  that  gay  and  lively  manner  he  once  had  in  her 
presence,  and  seemed  to  be  laboring  with  some  thought  that  ab- 
sorbed his  whole  soul. 

"  Cheer  up,  Charles,?  said  Caroline,  whose  brow  was  bound 
with  dazzling  diamonds,  "why  do  you  look  so  sad?"  and  she 
caught  him  playfully  by  the  hand,  as  she  spoke. 

'•'  Oh!  yes,  cheer  up,  Charles,"  repeated  his  mother,  "  you  ought 
to  love  your  cousin  in  consideration  of  her  kindness,  for  many  a 
lady  fair  would  discard  you,  as  an  uncourteous  knight.  Take  her 
hand,  and  pledge  her  your  heart." 

"Oh!  mother,"  gasped  Charles,  with  great  emotion,  "don't 
drive  me  to  distraction.  If  you  urge  this  suit,  I  am  the  veriest 
wretch  that  ever  lived." 

"In  the  name  of  heaven,  why  do  you  act  thus?"  demanded 
Madame  De  Beaumont — "  Will  you  ever  continue  to  refuse  the 


368  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

cup  of  bliss,  that  is  tendered  to  your  lips  by  those  who  sincerely 
love  you?" 

"  For  God's  sake  taunt  me  no  more,"  exclaimed  Charles,  as  he 
rushed,  like  a  madman,  from  the  house,  and  left  Madame  De 
Beaumont  and  Caroline  in  amazement,  unable  to  account  for  his 
strange  conduct. 

Charles,  as  was  his  wont,  when  any  thing  distressed  him,  fled 
to  the  wild  and  sublime  solitudes  of  nature,  to  commune  with 
himself.  He  knew  the  determined  spirit  of  his  mother,  and  that 
if  he  married  any  one  against  her  consent,  poverty  would  be  his 
doom;  and  if  he  married  a  girl  in  humble  life,  his  mother's  curse 
would  rest  upon  him.  In  the  first  case,  he  did  not  hesitate  a 
moment;  but  the  thought  of  thwarting-his  mother's  ardent  hopes, 
and  of  bringing  down  upon  himself  a  mother's  curse,  however 
unreasonably  it  might  be,  was  painful  to  his  soul.  So  much  did 
his  contending  thoughts  prey  upon  his  spirit,  that  he  looked  hag- 
gard, and  often  absented  himself  whole  days  from  his  sumptuous 
home,  where,  though  surrounded  with  every  comfort,  he  was  still 
wretched. 

Little  did  the  gay  and  gaudy  Caroline,  and  the  proud  and 
pompous  Madame  De  Beaumont  dream,  that  Charles  had  seen 
and  loved  the  boatman's  daughter.  Neither  of  them  would  have 
deigned  to  have  vouchsafed  her  a  passing  smile  or  word  of  recog- 
nition, and  the  thought  of  welcoming  her  as  a  daughter  and  a 
companion,  would  have  been  spurned  with  heart-scorning  contempt. 
So  aristocratic,  so  exclusive  was  Madame  De  Beaumont,  that  she 
would  rather  have  seen  her  only  darling  son  enveloped  in  his 
shroud,  and  laid  in  his  coffin,  than  married  to  one  in  humble  life, 
as  she  had  often  told  him. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  Charles  was  uneasy  in  mind,  when  thus 
placed  upon*  the  horns  of  a  dilemma.  He  loved  his  mother  de- 
votedly, and  it  pained  him  to  offend  her;  but,  on  the  contrary,  he 
loved  the  beautiful  Jane  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  first  and 
disinterested  passion,  and  would  sooner  wed  her  without  a  penny, 
than  his  cousin  Caroline  with  all  her  hoards  of  glittering  wealth, 
and  all  her  grandeur.  To  marry  Jane,  was  an  easy  matter;  he 
knew;  but  oh!  how  could  he  disclose  the  fact  to  his  mother? 
The  very  thought  drove  him  to  distraction ;  he  could  not  bear  to 
dwell  upon  it. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  369 


CHAPTER  IV- 

"  Speak,  speak,  love,  I  implore  thec, 

Say,  say,  hope  shall  be  thine, 
Thou,  thou,  know'st  that  I  love  thee, 

Say  but  that  thou  wilt  be  mine ! 
Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  say  but  that  thou  wilt  be  mine."— Sono, 

)IME  moved  on,  like  an  irresistible  tide  that  bears  away 
every  thing  on  its  bosom.  Spring  came,  decked  and 
adorned  with  gay  flowers,  like  a  young  bride  in  her 
beauty;  and  summer  came  on,  with  glorious  manifesta- 
tions of  green  woods,  and  fields  of  golden  grain,  and  still  Charles  De 
Beaumont  continued  to  be  a  sly  visitor  at  the  cottage  of  Johnny 
the  boatman;  honest,  upright  Johnny,  as  many  persons  called  him. 
His  daughter's  charms  were  the  theme  of  every  dashing  fellow 
whose  eye  had  feasted  on  the  luxury  of  her  beauty— ^that  beauty 
for  which  she  was  indebted  to  nature  alone.  She  had  received 
few,  if  any,  of  the  accomplishments  which  belong  to  high  life,  but 
her  natural,  simple  graces  amply  atoned  for  the  loss  of  them.  Her 
voice — Oh !  it  was  exquisite !— -Her  very  tones,  in  speaking,  were 
music  that  melted  in  melodious  harmony  on  the  ear,  like  the  full 
chords  of  an  organ;  and  when  she  sung,  every  ear  was  enchained 
and  charmed,  for  there  was  a  gushing  pathos;  a  mournful,  melting 
cadence;  a  melancholy,  soul-touching  expression,  that  opened 
the  deepest  fountains  of  feeling  in  the  heart,  and  awoke  memory 
from  the  dreams  of  other  days. 

It  was  on  a  charming  moonlight  night,  in  June,  when  all  nature 
was  arrayed  in  her  richest  robes,  that  Charles  stole  forth,  once 
more,  to  escape  the  importunities  of  his  mother;  to  avoid  the 
smiles  of  his  cousin  Caroline,  and  to  seek  her,  whose  society  he 
now  felt  was  his  only  earthly  happiness.  He  had  loved  the  boat- 
man's beautiful  daughter  at  first  sight,  and  so  deeply,  so  devotedly 
did  he  love  her,  that  he  did  not,  could  not,  would  not  conceive 
that  he  could  ever  love  her  less,  though  he  knew  that  his  passion 
was  the  impulse  of  the  moment.  But  though  he  felt  that  he  was 
beloved  in  return,  he  was  far  from  being  happy,  for  truly  has  Shak- 
speare  said,  that 

"The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth." 

His  mother  was  resolved,  as  she  said,  to  keep  wealth  in  the 
family,  and  to  do  this,  she  had  determined  that  he  should  marry 
his  cousin  Caroline,  which  he  was  equally  determined  to  avoid. 
47 


370  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

From  this  dilemma  be  must  extricate  himself,  by  clandestinely 
marrying  the  boatman's  daughter;  which,  he  knew,  would  bring 
down  poverty,  ruin,  estrangement,  and  the  vengeance  of  his 
mother,  on  his  own  head;  or  he  must  submit  to  the  imperious 
will  of  Madame  De  Beaumont;  wed  a  woman  he  did  not  love, 
and  be  doomed  to  a  life  of  indifference,  if  not  of  disgust.  In  vain 
he  endeavored  to  shut  out  the  disagreeable  subject  from  his  mind, 
and  he  sickened  at  the  thought  that,  while  every  thing  was  brilliant 
and  beautiful  around;  while  every  thing  in  nature  was  bursting 
into  bloom  and  beauty;  he  was  gloomy,  sad,  miserable. 

While  Charles  was  sauntering  along  beneath  the  bright  moon, 
and  musing  on  the  fixed  resolve  of  his  mother  to  render  him 
wretched,  sweet,  silvery  notes  broke  upon  his  ear,  more  exquisite 
than  those  that  are  breathed  from  the  JEoliau  harp.  So  intent 
had  he  been  upon  the  thoughts  that  agitated  his  bosom,  that  he 
had  not  noticed  his  near  approach  to  the  boatman's  cottage.  He 
listened — It  was  the  well  known  voice  of  Jane ;  she  was  singing 
a  sentimental  song.  He  approached  nearer  to  the  bower,  in  which 
she  was  sitting,  and  discovered,  through  the  vines,  that  her  lovely 
face  was  turned  upwards  towards  the  moon,  on  which  her  dark, 
dazzling  eyes  were  fixed.';  IJe  stood,  and  listened  intently,  as  she 
sang  the  following  stanza,  .* 

"Sweet  moon,  thou'st  witness 'd  every  vow 

I  breath 'd  to  Charles  so  dear; 
And  thou  shalt  be  a  witness  now, 

To  fond  affection's  tear; 
For  oh!  that  tender  tear  is  shed, 

At  thought  that  we  must  part; 
That  he  a  high-born  maid  may  wed, 

And  leave  a  broken  heart." 

"Ha!  what  mean  those  lines?"  he  enquired,  as  he  suddenly 
emerged  from  his  concealment,  and  startled  the  fair  Jane. 

"Oh!  Charles,  how  you  frightened  me!"  she  exclaimed. 

"And  how  sad  you  made  me,  by  that  melancholy  strain,"  re- 
joined Charles,  as  he  advanced,  took  her  hand,  and  sat  down 
beside  her. 

"  Dearest  Charles,  I  have  been  thinking  seriously  of  what  you 
proposed  when  we  last  met,  and  think  that  it  would  be  better  for 
us  both  that  we  should — should — " 

"Should  what,  my  pretty  coquette?"  he  enquired,  supposing 
she  was  indulging  the  coyness  peculiar  to  her  sex. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"  Why,  indeed  Charles,  I  can  hardly  tell  you,  for  the  very  though  t 
pains  me  to  the  heart.     But  had  we  not  better  part,  and  endeavor 
to  obliterate  all  the  past  feelings  that  we  have  too  fondly  indulged?" 
"  Then  you  have  ceased  to  love  ?"    ' 

"  No,  Charles,  no;  I  can  never  cease  to  love  you,  for  it  is  natural 
to  love  those  that  love  us;  and  though,  as  you  say,  we  cannot  love 
whom  we  please,  yet  when  we  are  beloved,  it  becomes  infectious 
like  disease;  we  catch  it  from  those  who  love  us.  Thus  by  a 
mysterious  attraction  my  soul  was  drawn  to  yours,  and  by  some 
magic,  Mesmeric  influence,  my  heart  caught  the  infection  of  your 
own,  and  the  more  I  have  struggled  against  it,  the  more  deeply 
I  have  loved  you." 

"How  then,  oh!  Jane,  how  can  you  propose  a  separation?" 
"  Charles,  listen  to  me  seriously,"  said  the  fair  girl,  as  she  flung 
back  her  clustering  curls  with  one  hand,  and  laid  the  other  gently 
on  his,  "listen  to  me  seriously,  for  you  know  that  I  would  not 
propose  any  thing  that  would  in  any  way  harm  you.  You  belong 
to  an  aristocratic  family — you  move  in  the  highest  circles  of  so- 
ciety— " 

"  Oh!  mention  not  the  accursed  Goriventional  forms  of  society," 
interrupted  Charles,  "for  I  hate,  I  dofte'St  every  thing. artificial." 

,  "But,  Charles,  let  me  tell  you  the  troth.  You  belong  to  a  high, 
proud,  wealthy  family — I  am  the  daughter  of  a  poor  boatman;  I 
have  never  been  accustomed  to  the  fashion,  etiquette  and  grandeur 
that  belong  to  aristocratic  life;  and,  though  I  have  read  of  them, 
I  should  but  ill  become  the  graces  that  are  necessary  to  a  member 
of  such  society.  Unequal  marriages  are  seldom  happy.  You  are 
rich ;  I  am  poor — if  you  would  be  happy,  you  should  marry  one 
who  is  your  equal  in  fortune,  education  and  accomplishment." 

"  Dearest  girl,  you  are  my  equal,  and  far  superior,  in  my  eyes, 
to  the  gilded  butterflies  that  flutter  in  artificial  life.  Oh!  Jane,  it  is 
because  you  are  the  child  of  nature — it  is  because  you  are  not  the 
artificial,  ephemeral  thing  of  aristocratic  hollow-hearted  life — it  is 
because  your  pure  feelings  and  affections  are  unpolluted  by  the 
interested  motives  that  govern  the  society  you  mentioned,  that  I 
love  you.  Yes,  your  high,  holy,  heavenly  charms,  would  grace 
any  circle,  however  proud,  polished  or  pure." 

"Ah!  Charles,  think  of  your  mother's  wishes,  and  of  the  duty 
you  owe  her  as  your  parent!  Should  you  marry  a  poor  plebeian — 
a  dowerless,  unpolished,  uneducated  girl  in  low  life,  like  myself, 
you  will  incur  the  vengeance  of  your  mother — you  will  be  dis- 
owned, disinherited,  and — " 


372  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"  Then,  my  sweet  Jane,  one  great  objection  to  our  union  will 
be  removed — if  I  am  disinherited,  I  shall  be  placed  upon  a  level 
with  you — we  shall  both  be  poor.  And  believe,  dearest,  poverty 
with  you,  will  be  far  preferable  to  opulence  and  splendor  with  one 
of  the  artificial  beauties  of  high  life.  Yes,  Jane,  a  hollow  tree 
for  a  home,  and  bread  and  water  for  food,  with  one  like  you,  would 
be  far  more  agreeable  than  a  palace,  and  the  loaded  tables  of 
luxury,  with  my  cousin  Caroline.  Think  of  it !  the  same  blood 
that  circulates  in  her  veins,  runs  in  my  own ;  yet  my  mother,  cursed 
with  the  inordinate  love  of  lucre,  and  to  keep  fortune  in  our  family, 
would  bind  me  to  a  relative;  to  a  cousin,  whom  I  love  not.  Oh! 
think  what  a  doom!  Save  me  from  it,  lovely  Jane,  by  taking  the 
heart  and  hand  that  never,  willingly,  can  be  Caroline's." 

"Ah!  my  dear  Charles,  heaven  is  witness  that  I  pity  your  situ- 
ation, but  I  fear  the  consequences,  should  I  consent  to  a  union." 

"What  consequences  can  you  fear,  Jane?"  enquired  Charles. 

"The  resentment  of  your  own  family,  Charles,"  returned  the 
sweet  girl,  as  she  gazed  tenderly  and  sadly  in  his  face.  "And 
then  you  have  not  calculated  the  result  of  your  hasty  passion, 
that  has  sprung  from  the  impulse  of  a  moment.  I  fear  you  have 
not  coolly  considered  how  evanescent  such  impulsive  passion  may 
prove.  Think  how  cruel  a  circumstance  it  would  be — how  it 
would  rend  both  our  hearts  with  agony,  should  either  of  us  repent — 
when  repentance  would  be  too  late — that  we  had  acted  so  pre- 
cipitately, so  rashly,  in  uniting  our  destinies." 

"  No,  never  will  I  repent,"  he  resolutely  exclaimed.  "  Perish 
the  thought  that  I  should  ever  repent  of  having  taken  her  to  my 
arms,  who  is  dearer  to  me  than  all  the  world  beside." 

"Ah!  Charles  you  do  not  know  how  soon  the  romance  of  love 
would  give  way  to  solemn  reality,  and  how  quickly  she,  who  before 
marriage  was  more  than  an  angel,  would  dwindle  into  less  than  a 
woman.  Such  is  often  the  case  with  the  imaginative  mind." 

The  fact  was  now,  the  more  he  conversed  with  the  lovely  being 
before  him,  the  more  ardently  he  loved  her;  for  she  was  a  girl  of 
good  natural  talents,  and  had,  by  reading,  stored  her  mind  with 
much  useful  knowledge,  though  she  would  have  been  considered 
awkward  in  the  beau  monde,  as  she  had  never  mingled  in  the  gay 
circles  of  fashionable  life.  She  was  not  deficient  in  solid,  sterling 
sense,  though  the  ways  of  the  gay,  aristocratic,  and  senseless 
circle  of  society  were  as  a  sealed  book  to  her. 

"Your  objections  can  all  be  removed,"  said  Charles,  after  a 
pause. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BAKD.  373 

'•'  But  there  are  others,"  she  observed;  "  there  are  other  equally 
weighty  reasons  that  we  should,  at  least,  refrain  from  the  rash, 
irrevocable  step  of  marriage,  if  not  to  forget  the  unfortunate 
affection  we  have  but  too  fondly  cherished  in  our  hearts." 

"  And  what  are  they,  my  beloved  Jane  ?"  he  enquired,  with  a  sigh. 

"  They  are  these.  First,  I  cannot,  at  present,  acquiesce  in  your 
wishes,  without  the  consent  of  your  parents;  and,  in  the  second 
place,  without  the  consent  of  my  own.  In  the  third  place,  I  do 
not  believe  that  the  consent  of  either  could  be  obtained;  and  in 
the  fourth  place,  neither  they  nor  I  would  wish  to  sacrifice  your 
happiness,  your  fortune,  perhaps  your  life,  by  such  an  unequal, 
unjust,  and  unpromising  marriage.  You  are  rich;  you  have  been 
reared  tenderly  in  high  life;  and  if  you  were  to  attempt  to  intro- 
duce me,  a  poor,  half-educated,  awkward  plebeian,  into  the  proud, 
polished  circles,  in  which  all  your  family  move,  do  you  not  see 
that  it  could  be  productive  of  nothing  but  mortification  and  disgust 
on  the  part  of  your  friends,  and  of  misery  to  you  and  myself. 
Oh!  Charles,  think  not  that  I  care  for  myself!  No,  to  render  you 
happy,  I  could  follow  you  through  the  world  as  your  servant ;  I 
could  devote  my  whole  energies,  both  of  mind  and  body,  to  ensure 
and  increase  your  bliss,  but  I  cannot,  I  will  not  commit  an  act 
which  would  not  only  render  you  and  your  friends  wretched  in 
the  end,  but  might  blast  me  with  th«  consciousness  that  I  had  been 
the  sole  cause  of  all  your  misery/' 

"Cursed,  cruel    fortune!"    exclaimed   the  unhappy  lover. 

"  On  either  side  I  see  nothing  but  wretchedness  in  store  for  me  ! 
Ah!  Jane,  lovely,  idolized  Jane,  how  can  you  thus  blast  all  of 
happiness  that  remains  to  me?  Never  could  I  be  unhappy  in 
your  arms.  No,  I  swear  by  yonder  silver  moon,  that  has  so  long 
listened  to  our  vows  of  love,  that  my  affection  can  never  cease  or 
diminish,  till  my  heart  shall  cease  to  pulsate  forever,  and  even  in 
death  my  last  sigh  shall  be  breathed  to  her  who  now  so  coldly 
consigns  me  to  a  far  greater  degree  of  misery  than  our  united 
hearts  could  ever  know.  I  have  been  told  that  when  woman  loves, 
she  loves  forever;  but  my  Jane  cannot  love,  or  she  would  not  thus 
doom  me  to  a  fate  that  I  dread  far  more  than  death ;  she  would 
not  throw  me  from  her  bosom  like  a  worthless  weed,  content  to 
see  me  forced  by  fate  to  wed  the  woman  I  cannot  love,  when  she 
could  so  easily  stretch  her  hand  and  save." 

Charles  saw  that  Jane's  arguments  were  too  powerful  for  his 
own,  and  he  appealed  to  pathetic  language  to  touch  her  heart. 
He  saw  that,  he  had  touched  the  proper  cord — she  was  weeping, 


374  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

and  he  knew  that  when  a  woman  once  suffers  herself  to  argue 
the  propriety  of  a  measure,  she  is  already  half  won.  Clasping 
his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  she  imploringly  exclaimed,  "  Oh !  Charles, 
do  not  urge  me  further!  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  induce  me  to 
consent  to  what  I  feel  will  be  the  ruin  of  us  both.  Spare  me  the 
fatal  act,  at  least  for  a  little  season." 

"  Well,  then,  be  it  so,  beloved  Jane.  When  we  meet  again,  I 
hope  these  imaginary  fears  will  have  passed  away,  and  that  you 
will,  with  a  smile,  consent  to  make  me  the  happiest  of  men." 

He  arose,  pressed  the  sylph-like  form  of  the  fair  Jane  to  his 
bosom;  and,  for  a  moment,  their  eyes  discoursed  eloquently  of 
that  passion,  which  has  been  a  puzzle  alike  to  philosophers 
and  fools.  In  that  moment  they  enjoyed  an  age  of  the  luxury  of 
love,  for  their  pure,  young  hearts  had  not  yet  learned  the  sordid 
arts  and  calculating  meanness  which  characterize  the  human  heart 
in  after  age.  Their  souls  enjoyed  that  high  and  holy  romance, 
which  opens  to  the  view  a  living  landscape  of  loveliness ;  a  brilliant 
ideal  world  of  light,  and  love,  and  beauty. 


CHAPTER   V- 

Yea,  1  have  set  my  heart  upon  this  match, 
And  thou  shall  wed  her,  whether  thou  wilt  or  not. 
But  soft!— I'll  coax  thee  with  a  winning  tongue, 
And  woo  ihee  to  my  purpose.    The  maid  is  fair, 
Yea!  very  fair,  and  comely."— OLD  PLAY. 

)HEN  Charles  had  breathed  adieu  to  the  guileless, 
artless,  innocent  creature,  in  whose  heart  his  image 
was  eternally  enshrined,  and  who  had  become  the 
angel  of  his  idolatry,  he  wandered  slowly  along  the 
meadows,  musing  on  the  events  of  that  night,  and  blessing  the 
generous  nature  of  that  fair  girl,  who,  he  felt,  would  not  hesitate 
to  sacrifice  her  own  happiness  to  secure  his.  As  he  approached 
the  splendid  mansion,  in  the  gorgeous  parlor  of  which  sat  the 
glittering  goddess  whom  his  mother  had  chosen  to  preside  over 
his  fate,  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  destiny  that  eventually  awaited 
him.  if  he  did  not  avoid  it  by  marrying  another. 

"  Oh  !  Love !  Love !"  mused  he,  "  what  a  powerful  deity  thou  art? 
No  wonder  that  the  ancients  represented  thee  blind  and  naked, 
for  blindly  dost  thou  lead  thy  votaries,  and  destitute  I  fear  will  be 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  375 

the  destiny  thou  wilt  decree  to  me.  If  I  marry  Caroline,  whom 
I  do  not  love,  I  shall  be  able  to  clothe  myself  in  purple  and  fine 
linen;  but  if  I  wed  Jane  Wordley,  I  shall  be  stripped  of  fortune, 
and  sent  naked,  of  wealth  at  least,  into  the  world.  Well  be  it 
so.  Oh  !  love,  poverty  even  will  be  sweet  where  thou  art,  while 
without  thee,  grandeur,  affluence,  all  that  luxury  can  bestow, 
will  be  but  glittering  misery,  and  gaudy  mockery.  It  is  strange 
how  sweetly,  how  swiftly  the  golden  hours  fly  by,  when  love  leads 
me  to  Jane's  bower ;  and  how  lingeringly  they  move,  when  chained 
at  the  side  of  Caroline,  where  love  is  not.  Love  is  the  sweetener 
of  human  toil.  For  the  smile  of  Jove,  the  weary  laborer  returns  to 
his  cottage,  far  happier  than  he,  who  for  wealth  has  wedded  the 
woman  he  did  not  love.  For  the  one,  there  is  peace  and  joy;  a 
solace  for  all  his  cares;  a  balm  for  every  woe,  while  for  the  other 
there  is  naught  but  bickering  and  disgust." 

Thus  did  he  continue  to  muse,  until  he  approached  the  win- 
dow, through  which  he  saw  Caroline  seated,  in  company  with  a 
gentleman  who  had  but  recently  become  her  suitor.  He  watched 
her,  as  with  consummate  art  she  levelled  at  him,  one  after  an- 
other, all  the  artillery  of  her  charms.  The  same  artful  manoeuvres, 
that  she  had  used  to  captivate  him,  were  now  used  to  storm  the 
castle  of  another's  heart.  He  watched  every  heartless  gaze  of  the 
practiced  fair  one,  and  compared  her  studied  graces,  and  artificial 
charms,  with  the  artless  innocence,  the  simple  winning  manners, 
and  natural  beauty  of  the  beloved  Jane,  and  he  felt  that  the  one 
was  as  much  transcended  by  the  other,  as  the  painted  butterfly  is 
by  the  beautiful  bird  of  Paradise. 

Charles  thanked  Heaven  that  for  that  night  he  would  be  spared 
the  martyrdom  of  a  meeting,  or  at  least  the  agony  of  a  mock 
courtship.  But  he  did  not  escape  the  terrible  infliction  of  his 
mother's  tongue ;  for,  though  he  endeavored  to  creep  up  to  his 
bed,  she  caught  him  on  the  stairway,  and,  in  winning  tones,  de- 
sired or  requested  an  interview,  in  her  boudoir.  Charles  knew 
the  nature  of  the  infliction  he  was  to  undergo,  for  it  had  been  fre- 
quent of  late,  and  he  followed  her  with  a  downcast  wo-begone 
look,  as  the  condemned  criminal  follows  the  headsman  to  the 
block.  He  shrunk  from  the  scene,  which  he  was  certain  would 
follow ;  but  he  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  make  no  exhibi- 
tion of  his  temper,  but  endeavor  to  prevail  on  her  to  concede  to 
his  prayers  and  tears,  what  she  had  so  often  denied  to  the  powers 
of  argument,  and  the  demands  of  reason.  He  was,  however, 
doomed  to  be  disappointed  in  his  most  sanguine  hopes,  for  she 
proved  to  be  more  determined  than  ever. 


376  WRITINGS    OF   THE    M1LFORD    BAKU. 

"If  you  are  determined  to  thwart  my  wishes,  and  deny  what  I 
have  condescended  to  beg  and  plead  for  as  a  favor,"  said  she,  with 
a  determined  air,  "  I  am  resolved  that  you  shall  suffer  for  your 
shameful  disobedience,  as  well  as  myself.  If  you  dare  to  marry 
another,  not  only  will  you  be  disowned  as  a  son,  and  driven  from 
the  happy  home  of  your  childhood ;  but  I  solemnly  swear  that  you 
shall  never  possess  one  dollar  of  the  estate,  which  shall  otherwise 
be  yours.  Now,  sir,  take  your  choice;  you  have  the  irrevocable 
decree,  and  you  shall  certainly  go  into  the  world  a  beggar,  if  I 
have  to  will  my  estate  to  charitable  institutions." 

"Well,  my  dear  mother,"  returned  Charles,  in  a  mournful  tone, 
"my  mind  is  made  up,  and  your  decree  has  gone  forth,  and  it  is 
useless  to  persecute  your  poor  unhappy  son  any  further." 

"You  might  be  the  happiest  of  men,  Charles,"  said  Madame 
De  Beaumont,  a  little  softened,  "were  it  not  for  your  stubborn 
disposition.  An  earthly  Paradise  is  before  you,  but  you  obsti- 
nately refuse  to  enter  it.  You  follow  a  phantom  of  fancy,  while 
you  pass  by  the  reality  unnoticed." 

"Ah!  mother,  you  did  not  suffer  your  youthful  affections  to  be 
crushed,  by  suffering  your  hand  to  go  where  your  heart  was  not. 
Think,  think  of  a  life  spent  in  the  society  of  one  to  whom  you 
are  indifferent — think  of  the  torture  of  lavishing  the  mere  signs 
of  counterfeited  affection  on  one  whom  you  do  not,  you  cannot 
love — think  of  the  loathing  and  disgust  that  must  follow!  In 
matrimony  the  absence  of  love  is  equivalent  to  hatred  and  disgust. 
You  married  for  love,  with  your  own  free  will,  and  you  would 
have  rebelled  against  .that  power  which  should  have  dared  to  dic- 
tate otherwise." 

This  appeal  rather  staggered  Madame  De  Beaumont,  and  in  a 
subdued  manner  she  again  addressed  him. 

"Well,  well,  my  son,  had  I  been  placed  in  a  similar  situation — 
had  a  handsome,  intelligent  man,  with  a  fortune  equal  to  Caro- 
line's, been  placed  before  me,  and  my  mother  had  said,  'marry 
him,'  I  would  have  jumped  at  the  chance.  My  dear  son,  no  doubt 
I  have  irritated  you  by  tny  endeavors  for  your  happiness;  calm 
yourself;  you  will  think  better  of  it  after  a  while.  You  must  look 
over  my  frequent  importunities,  for  they  are  intended  for  your 
good.  I  would  not  willingly  give  one  pang  to  your  susceptible 
heart,  for  I  know  that,  like  myself,  you  cannot  bear  to  be  driven." 

Our  hero  was  delighted  with  this  mild  language,  and  changed 
manner  of  his  mother ;  he  seemed  to  hear,  in  her  gentle  tones, 
the  harbinger  of  a  happier  fate.  With  a  smile  on  his  woe-worn 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  377 

countenance,  he  said — "Dear  mother,  do  not  urge  me  any  more 
to  wed  my  cousin  Caroline.  If  I  marry  her,  I  never  shall  know 
one  hour  of  happiness  while  I  live." 

"Very  well,  my  son,  I  will  not  attempt  to  force  you,  and  I  think 
I  know  you  too  well  to  suppose  that  you  would  disgrace  yourself 
and  family  by  an  ignoble  alliance.  Why,  Charles,  what  made  you 
start?" 

"Nothing  but  an  idle  thought!"  and  with  this  explanation, 
they  parted  for  the  night. 

Charles,  with  a  lighter  heart,  went  to  his  bed ;  but  scarcely  had 
he  fallen  asleep,  ere  a  horrible  dream  haunted  the  visionary  cham- 
bers of  his  brain.  He  dreamed  that  he  had  married  fair  Jane ;  that 
he  was  attacked  in  some  lonely  spot,  and  that  she  was  murdered 
in  his  arms.  A  change  then  came  over  the  spirit  of  his  dream — 
he  seemed  to  have  grown  weary  of  her,  whom  he  had  loved — that 
he  had  employed  an  assassin — that  his  guilt  was  discovered,  and 
he  was  thrown  into  a  gloomy  dungeon.  Trembling  with  affright, 
he  awoke,  and  passed  away  the  night  in  gloomy  reflections. 

The  next  morning,  at  the  table,  he  told  all  the  particulars  of  his 
dream,  to  his  cousin  Caroline  and  his  mother,  stating  only  that  he 
was  married  to  some  strange  lady,  and  they  appeared  to  have  been 
the  cause  of  the  murder.  They  laughed  heartily  at  what  filled  his 
mind  with  gloomy  forebodings.  He  remembered  the  countenance 
of  the  assassin — it  seemed  to  be  that  of  his  own  servant,  whom 
he  had  brought  from  England.  The  more  he  attempted  to  shake 
off  that  gloomy  vision,  the  more  it  haunted  his  recollection. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

"Lovely  woman,  I  adore  thee, 

Thou  to  me  appear'st  divinff": 
Grant  my  suit,  I  do  implore  tbee, 
Let  me  ever  call  thee  mine1."— SONG. 

)HE  appointed  evening  for  his  visit  to  the  cottage  of  the 
boatman  rolled  round,  and  as  usual,  he  went  in  dis- 
guise to  meet  his  beloved.     He  had  been  absent  some 
days  in  Philadelphia,  and  that  absence  made  him  the 
more  anxious  to  see  his  soul's  idol.     The  moon  ,fiad  not  risen, 
and  he  glided  along,  through  the  little  skirt  of  woodland,  unseen 
48 

V* 


378  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

by  any  eye.  He  gave  the  signal,  but  no  response  was  given. 
What  could  be  the  reason,  he  could  not  tell.  Had  her  father  dis- 
covered their  amour,  and  put  a  stop  to  it?  He  trembled  with  con- 
flicting thoughts,  doubts  and  fears.  He  gave  another  low  whistle 
— still  it  was  not  answered.  He  had  just  began  to  despair,  when 
he  saw  her  fairy  form  stealing  through  the  embowering  vines,  near 
the  cottage.  The  next  moment  she  was  locked  in  his  arms. 

"Charles!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  whisper,  "you  came  a  little 
before  the  time." 

"Love  is  always  impatient,"  said  he;  "and  now,  dear  Jane, 
every  thing  is  in  our  favor.  We  will  be  married,  and  when  it  is 
gradually  made  known  to  my  mother,  all  will  be  well." 

"Has  she  consented  to  the  marriage,  Charles?" 

"All  is  well,"  returned  Charles,  evasively.  "Both  your  friends 
and  mine  will  make  no  objection,  when  they  discover  that  we  are 
happy  in  each  other's  arms.  Now,  dearest  Jane,  fix,  fix  the  happy 
day,  when  you  will  be  mine." 

"I  cannot,  Charles,  unless  you  will  assure  me  that  you  have  the 
full  and  free  consent  of  your  parents,  and  even  then  I  ought  to 
hesitate.  I  tremble  for  the  result — indeed  I  do,  Charles." 

"Oh!  you  are  resolved  to  dash  my  brightest  cup  of  bliss,"  said 
Charles,  pettishly.  "  You  seem  never  at  a  loss  for  frivolous  excuses." 

"Pardon  me,  dear  Charles.  Indeed  it  is  not  my  wish  or  will  to 
give  you  a  moment  of  pain,  but  think,  oh!  think  of  the  step  you 
would  urge  me  to  take!  It  is  a  serious  one,  and  may  bode  evil  to 
us  both.  Charles,  do  not  be  rash,  I  implore  you." 

"Are  you  resolved  to  drive  me  to  distraction.  If  you  will  not 
consent  to  render  me  happy,  take  this  instrument  of  death  and 
put  a  period  to  my  misery  at  once,"  and  as  he  spoke  he  presented 
a  loaded  pistol  to  her.  She  started  and  turned  pale. 

"Oh!  Charles,"  she  exclaimed,  "this  incident  brings  to  mind 
my  dream  last  night,  in  which  I  saw  you  kill  yourself." 

"And  that  will  be  ere  long  realized,"  he  replied,  "unless  you 
consent  to  be  mine.  I  will  not  live  to  wed  the  woman  I  do  not, 
I  cannot  love.  Take  your  choice,  either  to*  see  me  happy  in  your 
arms,  or  a  corpse  at  your  feet,  ere  yonder  moon  shall  wane." 

"Dear  Charles,  you  frighten  me.     I  am  trembling  violently." 

"Oh!  I  will  consent  to  any  thing,  rather  than  see  you  commit 
so  rash  an  act.  Do  not,  for  heaven's  sake,  say  so  again." 

"Then  you  consent  to  be  mine?" 

"Will  you  not,  dear  Charles,  assure  me  of  the  consent  of  your 
mother?"  enquired  the  fair  girl,  with  an  imploring  look. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  379 

"Oh!  yes,  I  will  assure  you  of  that.  And  now  my  gentle  fair 
one,  when  shall  that  ceremony  be  performed,  which  will  ensure 
me  a  life  of  happiness?" 

"Ah!  you  selfish  man,"  returned  Jane,  playfully,  "you  do  not 
then  consult  my  happiness?" 

"Heaven  is  witness  that  I  do,  dearest,  for  it  shall  be  the  happi- 
ness of  my  life  to  render  you  happy." 

"  But  should  you  become  weary  of  the  boatman's  daughter?" 

"My  sweet  angel,  let  not  such  foolish  fancies  haunt  you.  While 
life  shall  last,  you  will  ever  be  as  dear  to  me  as  now." 

Jane  now  wiped  away  her  tears.  Her  mind  had  passed  the 
great  struggle,  and  she  now  resigned  herself  to  the  fate,  that 
seemed  irrevocable,  with  a  cheerful  spirit. 

"My  birth-day,"  said  she,  taking  Charles'  hand,  "is  next  Thurs- 
day, and  on  that  day  let  the  marriage  rites  be  performed.  But 
how  can  we  manage  to  avoid  detection  ?  If  my  father  shouldMe- 
tect  us  in  the  act  of  escaping,  your  life  would  be  the  forfeit,  before 
the  matter  could  be  explained.  Oh  !  I  tremble  at  the  very  thought 
of  what  I  have  promised  in  my  love  for  you.  For  heaven's  sake, 
Charles,  do  not  forsake  me  when  I  have  given  up  all  claim  to  my 
father's  protection." 

"Doubting  again,"  said  Charles.  "Will  you  never  have  faith 
in  one  who  would  sooner  perish  than  desert  or  deceive  you.  Be 
of  good  heart;  all  will  be  well.  My  servant,  on  that  happy  night, 
shall  have  my  carriage  ready  at  yonder  skirt  of  woodland,  where 
you  will  meet  me,  and  then  no  power  shall  prevail  against  us. 
Before  one  hour  shall  have  elapsed,  from  the  moment  we  meet, 
you  shall  be  forever  mine,  dearest.  Put  on  the  blue  mantle  that 
you  wore  when  I  first  saw  and  loved  you,  and  whie.i  I  admire  so 
much." 

"Yes,  Charles,  I  will  wear  any  thing  that  will  make  me  lovely 
in  your  eyes.  And  now,  dearest,  you  assure  me  of  your  mother  s 
consent,  without  reservation  or  equivocation?" 

"Oh!  certainly,  certainly — will  you  never  have  done  doubting? 
When  my  love  or  sincerky  shall  fail,  the  stars  themselves  shall 
cease  to  shine.  Oh!  Jane,  this  is  the  happiest  moment  of  my 
life — the  brightest  epoch  of  my  care-worn  existence !  How  bliss- 
ful to  me  is  the  prospect  that  lies  before  me,  a  long,  long  life  of 
love  and  joy!" 

Charles  was  very  sanguine,  and,  in  the  prospect  of  avoiding 
the  marriage  set  apart  for  him  by  his  mother,  he  was  now  as  happy 
as  he  had  been  miserable.  He  was  always  on  extremes.  Partak- 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

ing  of  the  French  character,  he  was  extremely  happy  or  extremely 
wretched;  and  acting  from  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  laid 
himself  liable  to  these  extremes. 

"Be  ready  at  this  hour,  on  the  night  you  have  appointed,"  con- 
tinued Charles,  "and  we  will  fly,  on  the  wind,  to  a  spot  in  my 
mind's  eye,  where  the  indissoluble  knot  shall  be  tied,  which  no 
man  shall  be  able  to  put  asunder." 

As  he  spoke,  he  clasped  her  to  his  bosom,  in  a  long  fond  em- 
brace, and  taking  her  hand,  said — "  Till  we  meet  again,  will  be  an 
age;  but  keep  up  your  spirits,  and  do  not  let  the  thought  frighten 
you,  that  you  are  about  to  throw  yourself  on  the  protection  of  one 
who  is  eternally  devoted  to  you,  and  who  would  perish  tatter  than 
betray." 

"I  tremble  when  I  think  of  it,"  returned  Jane,  "but  I  have 
given  you  my  word,  and  nothing  but  actual  force  shall  prevent  me 
from  fulfilling  it." 

Again  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  whispering  a  good 
night,  left  her  standing  like  a  statue  on  the  spot,  until  distance 
hid  her  from  his  view.  It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  describe 
the  feelings  of  that  innocent,  artless  girl ;  no  language  could  por- 
tray the  emotions  that  rent  her  bosom  that  night.  Hope  and  fear 
alternately  struggled  for  the  mastery,  and  in  vain  she  sought  her 
pillow;  the  god,  Morpheus,  refused  to  visit  her  eye-lids  with  re- 
freshing sleep. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  Be  has  told  his  tale 

And  found  that,  when  he  lost  his  heart,  he  play 'd 
No  losing  game  ;  but  won  a  richer  one  ! 
There  may  you  read  in  him,  how  love  would  seem 
Most  humble  when  most  bold ; 
In  her  you  read  how  wholly  lost  is  she 
Who  trusts  her  heart  to  love." — KMOWLES. 

I HARLES  De  Beaumont  was  harassed  in  mind,  as  well  as 
the  innocent  and  thoughtless  Jane.  But  the  day  dawned 
on  which-he  was  to  consummate  his  wishes,  and  he  looked 
forward  to  the  hour  with  an  intense  pleasure,  mingled 
with  an  indescribable  fear,  which  he  endeavored  to  throw  off. 
The  spell  of  love  is  powerful,  and  over  the  mind  of  Charles,  at  the 
present  moment,  it  held  undivided  sway.  The  picture,  which  his 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  381 

vivid  imagination  presented,  captivated  his  soul,  and  he  could  see 
nothing  before  him  but  bliss;  for  he  imagined  that  when  he  was 
married  to  Jane,  and  all  was  over,  his  mother  would  relent,  and 
all  would  be  well.  Alas!  how  short-sighted  is  human  nature! 
Though  coming  events  are  said  to  cast  their  shadows  before,  yet  if 
we  could  see  the  consequences  of  the  step  we  often  take,  how 
would  we  start,. and  tremble  ere  we  take  it. 

Werner,  the  servant  whom  Charles  had  brought  from  England 
with  him,  was  the  only  person  entrusted  with  the  secret  of  the 
intended  flight.  He  was  a  dark,  mysterious  man,  who  seemed 
fitted  for  any  deed,  and  appeared  to  be  delighted  with  any  intrigue 
or  stratagem  that  had  mystery  connected  with  it. 

Near  the  time  appointed,  he  put  the  horses  to  the  carriage,  and 
with  the  greatest  secrecy  proceeded  to  Ihe  spot  which  had  been 
designated.  Charles^  proceeded  alone,  by  a  by-path,  to  meet 
Jane ;  who  with  tearful  eyes  and  a  throbbing  heart,  had  been  sit- 
ing at  the  cottage  window,  watching  for  the  approach  of  him 
whom  her  soul  loved  to  idolatry.  The  moon  was  just  rising,  when 
the  signal  agreed  on  faintly  fell  upon  her  ear.  Her  heart  beat 
audibly — she  trembled  violently — she  seemed  bewildered;  but 
knowing  that  hesitation  might  betray  her,  and  to  be  betrayed  at 
that  moment  would  be  ruin,  she  summoned  all  her  resolution,  and 
stole  softly  down  the  stairway.  As  she  passed  the  sleeping  apart- 
ment of  her  poor  old  parents,  she  hesitated ;  her  heart  almost 
failed  her,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  returning  to  her  room- 

"Can  I  thus  desert  them?"  she  mentally  exclaimed;  "can 
I  thus  wound  the  hearts  of  those  who  have  ever  devotedly  loved 
me?  What  will  they  think  of  me — " 

At  this  moment  the  signal  again  fell  upon  her  ear,  and,  from  a 
window,  she  saw  Charles  near  the  cottage. 

"Oh!  God,"  she  again  thought,  "it  is  too  late,  now,  to  retrace 
my  steps.  It  will  never  do  to  be  discovered  in  the  act  of  escap- 
in<r,  for  the  worst  construction  would  be  put  upon  it." 

The  next  moment  the  cottage  door  opened,  and  Charles  clasped 
her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  to  the  bower  in  which  they  had  so 
often  met.  So  great  was  her  trepidation,  at  this  moment,  that  she 
was  ready  to  faint. 

"Be  calm,  my  gentle  Jane,"  said  he,  "you  are  in  the  protection 
of  one  who  will  ever  love,  and  never  desert  you." 

"Oh!  Charles,"  she  exclaimed,  gasping  for  breath,  "how  can  I 
endure  the  separation  ?  How  can  I  pain  the  hearts  of  my  poor 
old  parents?  Charles,  dear  Charles,  if  I  fly  with  you  I  am  lost, — 


382  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

undone.     Think,  oh!  think,  what  will  be  said  of  me,  by  a  cruel 
world  that  has  no  mercy? — do  not  urge  me  to  this." 

"Nay,  dearest  Jane,"  Returned  Charles,  "do  not  suffer  your 
fancy  thus  to  alarm  you ;  believe  me,  it  is  only  your  fancy.  Take 
courage,  my  beloved,  and  when  we  are  married  all  will  be  well." 

"But,  my  dear  Charles,  something  tells  me  that  we  are  doing 
what  is  wrong,  and  that  we  shall  both  repent  the  step." 

"Pshaw,  my  little  dreamer,"  cried  Charles,  "have  you  no  cour- 
age; no  mind  of  your  own?  Come,  let's  fly  to  him,  who  has  the 
power  to  unite  us  forever  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock." 

As  he  spoke  he  pressed  her  to  his  bosom ;  kissed  her,  and 
gently  drew  her  along  rewards  the  carriage.  So  great  was  the 
trepidation  of  the  affrighted  girl,  to  whose  mind  imagination  con- 
jured up  a  thousand  terrific  images,  that  she  could  scarcely  walk 
with  a  steady  step.  Still  greater  were  her  emotions  as  he  lifted 
her  into  the  carriage,  and  scarcely  had  he  ordered  the  postillion  to 
drive  on,  ere  she  fainted  in  his  arms.  Having  had  an  eye  to  this 
probable  event,  he  had  provided  himself  with  the  means,  and  by 
the  application  of  them,  soon  restored  her  to  consciousness,  with- 
out permitting  his  servant  to  know  anything  of  the  matter.  Jane 
now  appeared  more  composed,  the  crisis  of  her  emotion  was 
passed,  and  she  resigned  herself  to  what  was  to  follow. 

As  the  distance  to  the  place  where  the  parson  lived  was  but  a 
few  miles,  and  the  horses  moved  rapidly  over  the  road,  not  much 
time  elapsed  ere  they  drew  up  at  the  door  of  him,  who  was  des  • 
tined  to  unite,  and  thus  doom  two  beings  to  hours  of  bliss,  and 
days  of  anguish,  that  they  little  dreamed  of.  Could  that  reverend 
gentleman  have  looked  into  the  future,  and  read  all  that  was  to  be 
brought  about  by  the  deed  which  was  to  be  consummated  that 
night,  he  would  have  hesitated  at  least,  if  he  had  not  refused,  to 
tie  the  irrevocable  knot. 

"Why  so  serious,  dear  Jane?"  enquired  Charles,  while  they 
were  waiting  at  the  door  for  the  parson  to  dress  and  make  his 
appearance. 

"Oh!  Charles,  I  cannot  tell  you  my  feelings  and  my  fears.  My 
father,  though  poor  and  obscure,  is  a  man  of  high  spirit  and  vio- 
lent temper,  and  when  he  misses  me,  he  will  at  once  believe  that 
I  have  been  betrayed;  and  oh!  should  he,  in  his  rage,  pursue  and 
find  us,  I  know  not  what  will  be  the  consequence.  I  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  his  vengeance." 

Even  now  it  required  the  utmost  persuasion  to  sustain  the  mind 
of  Jane.  She  had  little  time,  however,  to  demur:  for  the  parson, 


WRITINGS    OP  THE   MILFORD    BARD.  383 

who  had  given  a  signal  from  the  window,  now  made  his  appear- 
ance at  the  door;  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  Jane  tottered 
from  the  carriage  to  the  house,  assisted  by  her  lover.  Pale  and 
trembling,  she  stood  with  Charles  before  the  reverend  man,  who 
naturally  supposed  that  her  emotiojitf  originated  in  the  seriousness 
of  the  occasion. 

When  they  were  married,  she  seemed  more*  calm,  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear — "Oh!  Charles,  what  have  I  done  for  your  sake!" 

Then,  as  they  proceeded  to  the  carriage,  she  enquired,  "Charles, 
would  you  have  sacrificed  so  much -for  me?'* 

"Have  I  not  made  a  sacrifice,  dearest  Jane,  for  love  of  thee?" 
asked  Charles,  in  turn.  "Have  I  not  braved "  here  he  recol- 
lected himself,  for  he  was  about  to  say  that  he  had  braved  the  will 
of  his  mother,  and  thereby  sacrificed  the  fortune  he  might  have 
enjoyed  with -Caroline,  had  he  not  taken  the  present  step.  Know- 
ing that  he  had  told  Jane  that  he  had  obtained  the  consent  of  his 
mother  to  the  marriage,  he  was  thus  debarred  from  meeting  her 
sacrifice  with  a  similar  one. 

"  What  a  lost,  undone  creature  I  am,"  said  Jane,'"  if  you  now 
forget  the  vow  which  has  been  sealed  in  heaven  this  night." 

"  Dearest  Jane,"  said  Charles,  as  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  in 
the  carriage,  "let  not  your  fancy  any  longer  affright  you.  We  are 
now  one,  in  the  sight  of  heaven.  We  have  loved  from  pure  dis- 
interested motives — from  choice — from  inclination,  and  nothing 
but  death  can  ever  dissolve  the  charm.  We  may  be  separated — 
we  may  be  torn  apart,  by  force — we  may,  by  stern  fate,  be  held 
asunder;  but  nothing  but  death  can  ever  tear  my  heart — my  affec- 
tions, from  thee — nothing  but  death  can  ever  cause  me  to  forget 
my  Jane,  one  moment.  No,  I  am  thine,  and  thine  alone  forever. 
You  are  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved,  and  that  love  shall  perish 
only  with  my  life." 

This  enthusiastic  declaration  soothed  the  mind  of  Jane,  and 
they  rode  onward  in  perfect  silence. 


384  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  For  if  there  be  a  human  tear, 
From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear ; 
A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek ; 
It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek; 
Tis  that  which  pious  parents  shed 
Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head." — SCOTT. 

REAT  was  the  excitement  at  the  cottage  of  the  boatman, 
when  it  was  discovered  that  the  idol  of  their  hearts  had 
fled.  Jane  did  not,  at  the  usual  time  in  the  morning, 
make  her  appearance,  and  when  her  mother  went  to  her 
room,  she  discovered  that  she  had  fled,  as,  on  searching,  she 
found  that  she  had  taken  her  fine  clothes  with  her.  The  old  lady 
recollected  having  seen  a  young  man  suspiciously  gazing  at  Jane, 
and  from  other  remembered  incidents,  she  concluded  that  she  had 
been  enticed  away. 

Old  Johnny,  the  boatman,  was  enraged,  and  would  listen  to 
nothing  from  his  wife.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  sporting;  he  kept 
a  gun  for  ducks,  and  no.  sooner  did  he  hear  of  the  flight  of  Jane, 
than  he  seized  his  gun  and  swore  he  would  go  gunning.  He  was 
one  of  those  fearless  old  men  who  care  for  nobody  when  wronged ; 
and  he  started  off  with  the  intention  of  discovering  the  young 
man  who  had  carried  off  his  daughter,  and  if  he  had  betrayed  her, 
to  shoot  him,  or  to  make  him  marry  her. 

He  enquired  of  every  one  he  met,  but  no  one  had  seen  the  run- 
away fair  one ;  he  searched  in  every  place  where  he  thought  she 
would  have  gone;  but  he  sought  in  vain,  and  when  he  returned 
home  at  night,  weary  and  dejected,  and  his  passion  subsided,  he 
joined  his  poor  old  wife  in  vain  regret  and  tears. 

"Oh!  my  poor,  dear,  lost  child;"  she  exclaimed,  "she  has  been 
deceived — I  know  she  has,  or  she  never  would  have  forsaken  her 
poor  old  mother  in  this  way." 

"She's  an  ungrateful  wretch,"  returned  the  old  man,  "and  if 
she's  deserted  us  for  $  good  for  nothing  fellow,  she  may  go;  for 
she  shall  never  darkeA  my  door  again." 

"Don't  say  so,  my  dear,"  exclaimed  the  mother;  "she's  our 
child,  and  though  she  may  have  been  cheated  by  some  good  for 
nothing  fellow,  I  can  never  consent  to  forsake  her.  No,  no ;  if 
she  comes  back  penitent  to  these  old  arms,  her  mother  can  never 
find  it  in  her  heart  to  forsake  her." 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  385 

"So  you'd  encourage  a  dozen  such  wretches  to  run  away?"  re- 
plied Johnny,  as  he  placed  his  gun  in  the  corner,  "/say,  as  she 
makes  her  bed,  so  let  her  lie  in  it." 

The  tears  were  stealing  down  the  good  old  lady's  cheeks,  and 
she  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  as  she  continued — •'  Ah  !  Johnny,  we  are 
all  mortal ;  all  liable  to  do  wrong;  and  if  we  don't  forgive  one  an- 
other, how  can  we  ask  and  expect  mercy  from  our  Father,  who  is 
in  heaven  ?  I  hope  and  pray  that  Jane  is  innocent;  but  if  so  be 
that  she  has  disgraced  herself,  her  old  mother's  arms  will  receive 
her,  though  all  the  world  turn  against  her,  and  cry  out  shame.  If 
she  comes  back  sorry  and  crying,  I  couldn't  shut  the  door  against 
her,  and — " 

Here  the  old  lady's  heart  became  too  full  to  speak,  and  she 
burst  into  tears,  which  so  affected  the  old  man,  that  though  he 
was  all  unused  to  the  melting  mood,  it  required  all  the  philosophy 
he  was  master  of,  to  keep  from  weeping. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he,  "  this  beats  all  that  ever  did  come  across 
me.  Old  Johnny,  the  honest  boatman,  as  they  call  me,  never  ex- 
pected to  have  an  ungrateful  child.  I  never  thought  my  daughter 
would  disgrace  me,  and  send  my  grey  hairs  in  sorrow  to  the 
grave.  She's  an  ungrateful  girl,  and,  by  George,  I've  a  great 
mind  to  curse  her." 

"  Oh !  don't,  for  mercy's  sake,"  exclaimed  the  old  lady,  in  a 
mournful,  pathetic  tone,  that  would  have  touched  a  heart  of  ada- 
mant; "don't  curse  your  poor,  weak  child,  for  she  never,  till  this 
day,  did  anything  to  make  us  unhappy.  Poor  thing,  I  know  she'll 
be  sorry  for  it,  when  she  comes  to  her  senses  !  There  never  was 
a  better  girl,  till  she  got  the  gold  rings  and  other  fine  things,  that 
she  said  a  lady  in  town  gave  her;  and  then  she  began  to  sigh,  and 
walk  alone,  and  talk  of  high  life." 

"  Ye*f"  returned  Johnny,  "  the  devil  must  have  got  her  senses; 
and  as  to  the  rings  and  fine  things,  I  always  had  a  sneaking  notion 
that  a  lady,  with  pantaloons  on,  gave  them  to  her.  You  needn't 
tell  me  such  trumpery,  and  I  told  you,  long  ago,  that  some  of  these 
dashing  fellows  were  turning  her  brain.  .But  you  said,  '  Oh  !  no  ; 
she's  a  girl  of  too  good  sense,  to  be  caught^with  chafF.'  I  said  it 
would  be  so,  but  you  wouldn't  hear  to  it;  and  now  where's  your 
girl  with  such  good  sense?" 

This  was  more  than  the  good  old  dame  could  bear,  for  she  had 
the  heart  of  a  mother ;  and  she  fell  into  a  fit  of  convulsive  sob- 
ing  and  weeping.  Oh  !  how  sacred  is  a  mother's  love  ! — Though 
covered  with  shame,  and  forsaken  by  all  the  world,  a  mother's  love 
49 


386  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

still  clings  to  a  lost  and  erring  child.  .  No  distance  can  subdue  it; 
no  time  obliterate  it;  no  ingratitude  estrange  it — it  lives  on,  amid 
the  wreck  of  all  else  that  is  held  holy ;  still  green  when  all  else 
has  perished.  A  mother's  love,  stripped  of  all  the  gross  selfish- 
ness of  the  human  heart,  knows  but  one  object;  the  object  of  its 
idolatry,  and  to  that  object  it  clings,  free  from  all  the  cold,  inte- 
rested motives  of  the  world. 

She  heeds  not  the  causes  that  led  to  its  fall, 

But  she  knows  that  she  loves  it,  in  spite  of  them  all. 

Great  was  the  curiosity  among  those  who  were  acquainted  in 
the  household  of  Johnny,  the  boatman,  to  know  what  had  become 
of  his  fair  daughter;  and  many  wondered;  a  great  many  more 
guessed  ;  yet  all  missed  the  mark.  As  Charles  De  Beaumont  was 
often  gone  from  home  weeks  at  a  time,  and  as  his  aristocratic 
family  did  not  deign  to  spend  a  thought  on  such  plebeian  person- 
ages and  their  concerns,  a  knowledge  of  the  absence  of  Jane  was 
not  likely  to  reach  their  ears,  and  if  it  did,  was  not  likely  to  be 
noticed.  Hence  they  did  not  dream  that  Charles  had  gone  off 
with  Jane  Wordley,  much  less  that  he  had  married  in  low  life,  as 
they  called  it. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

"Thy  look  alone  awakens  fear, 
I  will  not  of  the  future  hear; 
You  will  not?    Maiden  you  shall  know 
Your  onward  path  is  track'd  in  woe." 

)NTIL  Charles  had  left  the  parson's  house,  he  had  never 
thought  of  the  place  to  which  Jane  was  to  be  carried, 
after  marriage;  for  he  dared  not  carry  her  to  his 
home,  without  breaking  the  matter  to  his  mother;  nei- 
ther could  he  take  her  to  her  own  home,  for  a  similar  reason. 
Here  was  the  short-sightedness  of  love.  He  was  not  long,  how- 
ever, in  arranging  that  matter*.  In  his  rambles  over  the  country, 
he  had  become  acquainted  with  a« woman,  who  lived  on  the  bor- 
der of  Pennsylvania,  and  in  a  very  romantic  spot.  This  woman 
had,  on  one  occasion,  shown  him  kindness,  when  sick  from  fa- 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  387 

tigue  in  sporting;  and  to  that  retired  and  beautiful  spot,  he  could 
repair  without  the  possibility  of  being  discovered.  This  woman 
was  called  Wild  Sal,  on  account  of  her  living  alone,  and  not  be- 
ing often  seen;  for  the  place  on  the  Brandy  wine  where  she  resided 
was  then  wild,  and  seldom  trod,  save  by  the  foot  of  the  fearless 
hunter,  or  the  still  more  undaunted  Indian. 

To  this  spot,  as  soon  as  he  had  made  an  agreement  with  Jane, 
Charles  turned  his  horses'  heads.  The  glorious  sun  was  just 
heralding  his  approach — Aurora,  the  fair  goddess  of  the  morn,  had 
just  unbarred  the  golden  gates  of  day,  and  was  scattering  her  rosy 
light  over  the  battle-field  of  the  Brandywine.  How  beautiful, 
how  lovely,  does  every  thing  in  the  country  appear  at  such  a  time, 
on  a  summer's  morn  ?  and  now  that  the  deed  was  done,  and  the 
die  was  cast,  they  both  enjoyed  it;  for  Jane  had  pass'd  the  climax 
of  her  fears,  and  made  up  her  mind  to  be  happy.  She  was  mar- 
ried, and  why  need  she  fear  the  scoffs  and  the  scorn  of  the  world  ? 
People  might  talk  about  her  for  a  time,  and  people  will  talk  about 
the  best ;  but,  as  soon  as  matters  were  understood — as  soon  as  it 
was  known  that  she  was  honorably  married,  and  to  such  a  man  as 
Charles  De  Beaumont,  one  of  the  tip-top  aristocracy;  many  of 
those  who  had  talked  about  her,  as  the  poor  ruined  plebeian  girl, 
would,  as  Mrs.  Aristocratic  Jane  De  Beaumont,  be  ready  to  bow 
down  at  her  feet. 

Such  were  her  thoughts,  as  she  looked  from  the  carriage  win- 
dow, on  the  lovely  living  landscape  before  her.  From  the  cottage 
chimney  of  Wild  Sal,  the  smoke  was  curling  gayly  up  into  the 
heavens;  the  bleating  lambs  were  abroad  on  the  hills;  the  birds, 
of  beautiful  plumage,  were  singing  gaily  in  the  green  groves  and 
glades  around;  all  was  harmony — all  was  peace.  Ts  it  strange, 
then,  that  a  gentle  heart,  like  that  of  Jane,  should  enjoy  it? 

"Good  morning,  Mother  Sarah, — I  hope  you're  well,"  said 
Charles,  as  he  assisted  Jane  to  alight  from  her  carriage. 

"The  top  o'  the  mornin  till  ye,"  returned  Sal,  "an  I  hope  ye'll 
tarry  the  day  with  me,  for  ivery  inch  iv  ye's  a  gintleman.  Och ! 
noo,  an  ye've  got  a  fine  leddy  with  ye." 

"She's  my  wife,  Mother,  and  I  desire  you  to  take  care  of  her  a 
while,  as  she  has  been  sick,  and  needs  the  country  air." 

"Och!  an  is  it  sick  ye'll  be  saying — an  I  niver  see  a  heartier 
sick  one  afore,  I  did'nt.  Come  in  till  the  house,  dear,  an  make 
yerself  at  home  the  day.  Sit  doon  by  the  windy,  dear,  an  take 
the  air,  and  divil  the  bit  ye  need  mind  the  dirt  on  the  flure. 
Wisha,  an  'lis  I  that  can  keep  as  clane  a  house  as  any  body, 


388  WRITINGS    OK    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

though  I  say  it  myself  sure.  Sit  ye  doon,  Masther  Charles — sit 
ye  doon  and  take  aff  yer  bonnet  leddy,  and  sure  but  ye'll  stay  the 
day  wid  ould  Sally,  for  its  not  all  the  goold  in  the  universe  could 
be  more  temptin  than  yer  company." 

"Well,  Mother,  I  want  you  to  keep  my  lovely  Jane  awhile,  and 
let  no  one  know  she  is  here,  if  you  can  help  it.  We  are  a  run- 
away married  couple." 

"Och!  murther,  murther,  I'm  kilt  intirely.  But  ye're  a  bad  by, 
ye're  a  bad  by,  and  ye'll  niver  be  the  betther  iv  it  in  all  ye're  born 
days,"  and  Sal  laughed  heartily  at  her  own  wit.  "But  I  tell  ye, 
mon,  ye've  got  a  tight  little  leddy  as  ever  trod  shoes.  Och !  but 
she'll  plase  ye  wid  her  killen  looks, — an  it  was  meself  that  was 
good  looken  till  I  got  the  pain  in  the  small  o'  me  back." 

"Well,  mother,  if  you'll  take  care  of  my  darling  Jane,  you 
shall  not  want  for  money." 

"  An  it's  take  care  iv  her  ye  say!  an  if  I  don't,  may  the  powers 
above  niver  take  care  o'  me." 

This  personage,  who,  as  was  observed  before,  was  called  Wild 
Sal,  had  some  excellent  traits  of  the  heart:  but  there  was  one 
that  was  paramount  to  all — the  love  of  money.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  she  had  an  inordinate  love  of  money;  and  like  many,  she 
loved  it  for  its  own  sake.  She  lived  alone;  she  mingled  with  the 
world  but  little;  she  indulged  in  but  little  traffic,  yet  she  had  an 
inordinate  love  for  money.  But  human  nature  is  ever  on  the  ex- 
treme, and  extremes  are  said  to  meet — hence  Sarah  had  many 
opposite  qualities.  She  had  been  crossed  in  love,  in  early  life  ; 
she  had  loved,  and  been  beloved,  by  an  officer  in  Ireland,  who 
wished  to  marry  her,  but  she  had  been  opposed  by  her  friends,  and 
it  had  colored  her  after  life ;  it  had  rendered  her  reckless  of  every 
thing,  and,  though  she  still  boasted  that  the  blood  of  a  Wolf  Tone 
ran  in  her  veins,  she  cared  not  for  any  thing  in  this  world.  How 
little  do  parents  think  of  the  consequences,  when  they  oppose, 
foolishly,  the  marriage  of  their  children?  Alas!  how  many  in- 
stances have  there  been,  in  which  early  affections  have  been  blasted, 
where  perfect  shipwreck  has  been  the  consequence?  I  have 
known  a  young  man,  with  brilliant  promise,  who  had  garnered  up 
his  affections,  from  childhood,  in  the  bosom  of  a  young  creature, 
whom  he  intended  to  marry,  and  whose  life  became  a  perfect 
blank;  a  monotony — whose  ambition  was  blasted,  and  who  lost 
all  love  for  every  thing  in  the  world,  by  having  had  his  young  af- 
fections blasted  in  the  morning  of  his  existence.  As  marriage  is 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  389 

one  of  the  most  important  concerns  in  this  life,  so  the  disappoint- 
ment of  it  becomes  the  most  severe.  The  hollow-hearted  world 
looks  on,  and  laughs  at  the  young  man,  or  young  lady,  whose 
hopes  have  been  blighted,  while  his  or  her  heart  is  writhing  in 
hopeless  woe,  and  is  clad  in  the  darkest  gloom  of  despair. 

But  enough  of  Sarah's  misfortunes.  Charles  and  Jane  were 
happy  in  each  other's  love.  He  idolized  her,  for  her  natural  sim- 
plicity; for  her  freedom  from  the  artificial,  heartless  conventional 
notions  that  govern  aristocratic  life ;  and  Jane  loved  him  because 
he  loved  her.  The  bonds  between  them,  were  like  those  between 
Othello  and  Desdemona — they  were  mutual.  Ah!  there  lies  the 
luxury  of  love !  Not  where  two  hearts  meet  on  equal  grounds, 
but  where  they  are  divided  by  great  and  almost  impassable  barriers. 
But  like  stolen  fruit,  the  sweetest  of  all  love  is  that  which  is  for- 
bidden. With  what  a  longing  eye  does  the  fox  survey  grapes, 
which  he  knows  it  will  be  danger  to  approach?  and  with  what 
contempt  does  he  eat  those  which  are  scattered  on  the  road?  So 
it  is  in  love.  That  which  can  be  obtained  easily,  is  rejected;  while 
that  which  is  hard  to  come  at,  is  sought  with  avidity.  He  who 
sees  the  net  carefully  set  to  entrap  him,  will  avoid  it;  while  he 
will  walk  blindfolded  into  danger,  to  obtain  the  fair  one,  whose 
friends  are  resolved  he  shall  not  have  her.  The  vagaries  of  the 
human  heart,  in  love,  are  curious. 

The  object  it  cannot  obtain,  it  seeks,  in  spite  of  pistols  and 
powder ;  while  that  which  solicits,  and  is  solicited  by  friends  to  be 
wooed,  is  passed  by  in  cold  neglect. 

So  it  was  with  Charles.  He  loved  natural  beauty;  he  loved  the 
sirhplicity  of  nature;  but  the  opposition  of  his  mother,  to  thwart 
his  wishes,  gave  a  zest  to  his  passion,  and  made  him  more  deter- 
mined to  have  her  at  all  hazards. 

Blissful  indeed  was  the  honey-moon  to  Charles,  and  ten  times 
more  blissful,  if  possible,  to  that  young,  inexperienced  creature, 
at  his  side.  She  was  one  of  those,  whom  nature  had  made  for 
love;  so  gentle,  so  confiding,  so  innocent!  She  seemed  made 
alone  for  love;  her  imagination  was  a  world  of  love,  and  in  it 
Charles  was  the  object  of  her  idolatry.  And  she  did  adore  him 
with  all  the  devotion ;  with  all  the  single-minded  purpose  of  a 
pure  and  unpolluted  heart.  She  was  one  of  those  whom  Moore 
has  described — 

"Who  would  blush  when  you  praise  her,  and  weep  when  you  blame." 


390  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Jane  found  a  very  pleasant  home  in  this  wild  and  romantic  spot, 
blessed,  as  she  was,  with  the  attentions  of  the  man  whom  she 
loved  with  all  her  heart.  Wild  Sal  was  sometimes  uncouth,  but 
always  kind  in  her  rough  way,  and  as  Charles  did  not  leave  her 
for  several  days,  Jane  was  perfectly  happy  and  contented,  though 
the  thought  of  home  occasionally  brought  with  it  a  pang. 

When  Charles  did  leave  her,  he  promised  to  see  her  in  a  day  or 
two,  at  furthest,  and  the  very  separation  made  their  meeting  more 
sweet.  He  supplied  Sarah  with  every  thing  needed  for  the  com- 
fort of  Jane,  and  the  money-loving  hostess  thought  he  was  the 
finest  ginileman  she  iver  did  see  at  all,  at  all. 

Time  passed  on;  the  luxury  of  love  continued.  Charles  visited 
Jane  frequently,  and  spent  two  or  three  days  with  her,  in  her 
wild  retreat,  and  delicious  were  the  golden  moments  as  they  fled 
on  angel  wings.  Still  old  Johnny,  the  Boatman,  had  no  knowledge 
of  the  fate  of  his  now  happy  daughter.  The  good  old  dame  Word- 
ley  had  begun  to  think  that  she  was  gone  off  to  parts  unknown, 
and  every  night  offered  up  a  prayer  for  the  poor  erring  daughter. 

But  the  mind  of  the  impulsive  Charles  was  beginning  to  be  sated 
with  the  luxuries  of  love.  The  delirious  voluptuousness  of  that 
romantic  passion,  which  had  held  his  soul  in  subjection,  was  now 
passing  away,  like  the  fantastic  visions  of  a  dream,  and  he  was 
awaking  to  the  reality — he  was  awaking  to  find  himself  undone. 

As  autumn,  with  her  melancholy  scenes,  approached,  his  visits 
became  less  frequent,  though  the  gentle  Jane  was  all  the  time  re- 
minding him  that  it  was  time  to  make  a  revelation  of  matters,  and 
restore  her  once  more  to  the  world.  Charles  put  her  off,  from 
time  to  time,  with  frivolous  excuses;  while  he  began  heartily  to 
repent  that  he  had  acted  so  rashly.  And  though  the  charms  of 
Jane,  in  the  hey-day  of  his  passion,  had  appeared  angelic,  the 
truth  was,  he  began  now  to  see  her  faults,  and  that  which  he  had 
once  so  ardently  admired,  now  appeared  uncouth  in  his  eyes. 

Many  a  tear  did  poor  Jane  shed  secretly,  when  Charles  was  ab- 
sent ;  and  yet  she  was  afraid  to  confess  to  her  own  heart  the  cause 
of  those  tears.  When  he  came,  her  joy  was  so  great  that  she 
hastily  wiped  them  away,  and  met  him  in  smiles.  She  dared  not 
mention  to  him  her  fears,  though  the  cause  of  them  was  apparent; 
least,  in  doing  so,  she  should  dispel  the  illusion  that  she  fondly 
cherished. 

"My  dear  Charles,"  she  said  to  him  one  day,  when  he  had  been 
longer  absent  than  usual,  "you  look  changed — you  are  no  longer 
the  happy  being  you  have  been — are  you  sick?" 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  391 

"  No,  no  ;  I  am  not  sick,"  returned  Charles,  with  a  sigh,  and  at 
the  same  time  exhibiting  ill  feeling.  "  It  does  not  become  you 
to  ask  such  questions." 

These  were  the  first  unkind  words  he  had  given  her,  and  Jane, 
with  wounded  feelings,  turned  away  to  hide  her  grief,  while  he 
walked  the  floor  in  a  musing  mood. 

"Oh!  Charles,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  burst  into  tears,  "I  did 
not  intend  to  offend  you.  I  beg,  I  implore  you  not  to  be  angry, 
for  if  you,  for  whom  I  have  forsaken  all  else,  now  turn  against  me, 
what  will  become  of  me!" 

"Come,  come,"  said  Charles,  in  a  gruff  voice,  "no  more  of  this. 
I  hate  such  exhibitions  of  weakness." 

"Dearest  Charles,  I  did  not  intend  to  offend  you,"  returned  the 
unhappy  girl,  as  she  attempted  to  smile  through  her  tears. 

"Then  let  us  have  no  more  of  it,"  he  replied,  and  turning 
hastily  on  his  heel,  went  out,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  off. 

Charles,  from  the  happiest,  had,  in  a  few  months,  become  the 
most  miserable  of  men;  and  he  wondered  how  it  was,  that  what 
he  had  once  considered  graces  in  Jane,  now  appeared,  in  his  eyes, 
as  defects.  He  had  once  been  enraptured  at  hearing  her  sing,  but 
now  her  tone  and  manner  seemed  awkward  and  ridiculous.  He 
noticed  her  walk — it  was  awkward;  and  even  her  smile  disgusted 
him.  He  became  less  and  less  attentive  to  her,  and  his  purse  was 
not  so  often  opened  to  the  rapacious  fingers  of  Sarah.  She,  too, 
on  that  account,  became  less  attentive  and  subservient  to  the  un- 
happy Jane. 

"Well,  young  woman,"  she  exclaimed  one  day,  "an,  be  the 
powers,  but  I  think  its  high  time  that  sich  likes  as  yerself  would 
be  afther  findin  another  home,  for  I  don't  mane  till  wait  on  ye  any 
longer,  at  all  at  all.  Ye'd  betther  be  afther  bundlin  up,  an  lookin 
afther  the  young  gintleman,  for  I  don't  think  he  cares  for  sich 
likes  as  you." 

Jane,  poor  girl,  could  only  answer  with  her  tears,  as  she  sat 
watching  at  the  window  for  the  return  of  Charles,  and  revolving  in 
her  mind  whether  she  had  not  better  go  home  at  once,  and,  in 
penitence  and  tears,  throw  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  poor  old 
father  and  mother.  Every  time  Charles  came,  he  was  more  and 
more  reserved  in  his  manner,  and,  at  times,  cold  and  cruel  to  her 
who  had  forsaken  all  else  that  she  loved,  for  him.  Ah  !  how  could 
the  love  he  had  once  felt,  and  which  had  led  him  to  worship  her, 
change  so  soon? 


392  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Oh !  love  grows  cold— thou  art  not  what  I  thought, 
I  dreamt  thou  wert  an  angel,  and  I  find 
Thou  art  but  woman — Oh  !  'tis  strange  indeed ! 
That  [  could  thus  have  loved,  and  been  deceived!"— AWOH. 

ANE  sat  eve  after  eve  at  her  window,  in  that  lone  spot, 
pi  watching  for  Charles;  but  he  came  not.  She  wept  to 
think  that  he  could  so  soon  forget  his  vow;  that  he  could 
so  soon  forget  all  that  he  had  so  solemnly  pledged;  but 
she  wept  in  vain.  She  then  made  op  her  mind  to  go  home  to  her 
poor  old  parents;  to  fall  upon  her  knees,  and  beg  forgiveness  fo 
what  she  had  done,  for  the  love  of  faithless  man. 

"  Oh !  Charles,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  wiped  away  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  "  you  little  know  what  anguish  you  have  given  to  a 
heart  that  loves  you  sincerely — loves  you  dearly !" 

She  then  put  on  her  bonnet,  and,  passing  by  her  former  friend 
and  keeper,  she  pretended  .she  was  disposed  for  a  walk,  and  took 
her  way  towards  home.  Ah!  who  can  tell  the  feelings  of  that 
sad,  forlorn  girl,  as  she  trod  her  way  to  that  home  which  she  had 
deserted  ?  Who  can  imagine  the  wretchedness  of  soul  in  that  pure 
unpolluted  woman^  How  miserable  were  her  feelings  when  her 
thoughts  came  in  that  her  parents  would  think  that  she  had  betrayed 
the  admonitions  they  had  given  her!  Ever  and  anon  she  stopped, 
and  thought  of  Charles.  Again  her  tears  poured  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  she  exclaimed  mentally,  "  that  such  is 
man's  love  ?  Never  again  will  I  put  faith  in  protestations  of  man !" 

Thus  she  mused  until  she  came  in  sight  of  her  father's  cottage. 
The  old  man  was  standing  in  the  yard — she  rushed  forward  and 
fell  at  his  feet,  exclaiming,  "Oh!  father,  forgive  your  poor  repent- 
ant daughter,  who  trusted  in  the  love  of  man,  and  has  been  de- 
ceived. Where,  oh!  where  is  my  mother?" 

"Away,  vile  creature F*  replied  the  old  man.  "You  are  never 
again  to  enter  my  door.  Your  mother  is  gone  and  what  care  you 
for  a  mother,  who  will  thus  disgrace  her." 

"Oh!  my  dear  father,  I  am  no  vile  creature,"  exclaimed*  the 
girl  in  piteous  tones,  still  clinging  to  his  knees. 

"  Away,  I  say — out  of  my  sight — you  have  disgraced  your  poor 
old  parents,  and  are  no  longer  worthy  to  be  called  their  daughter. 
Never  let  me  see  you  again." 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  393 

As  he  spoke  he  thrust  her  from  him,  as  if  she  had  been  a  rattle- 
snake. Poor  Jane  gave  one  piercing  scream,  and  fell  swooning 
to  the  ground.  When  she  recovered  her  consciousness  her  father 
was  gone,  she  knew  not  whither.  She  arose  and,  adjusting  the 
blue  mantle  which  Charles  thought  her  so  graceful  in,  she  turned 
her  face  back  to  the  place  from  whence  she  came.  She  resolved 
to  throw  herself  on  the  mercy  of  Sal,  until  she  could  hear  some 
tidings  of  Charles,  but  it  required  all  the  eloquence  that  she  was 
mistress  of,  to  prevail  upon  her  to  give  her  a  home  until  she  wrote 
to  Charles  her  last  appeal.  But  she  did  prevail,  and  seating  her- 
self on  an  old  stool,  she  indited  to  him  the  following  epistle: 

"Dear  Charles,  this  is  the  last  yo>i  will  ever  hear  from  your  poor,  forsaken 
Jane.  Oh!  how  could  you  thus  prove  recreant  to  the  holy  vows  you  made? 
How  can  you  desert  her,  to  whom  you  breathed  eternal  fidelity  ?  To  my  father's 
cottage  I  can  never  return.  If  you  forsake  me,  there  is  no  alternative  but  the 
grave.  Can  you,  oh !  Charles,  will  you  desert  her,  whose  whole  heart  is  yours? 
Come  to  me,  I  implore  you,  and  only  say  that  you  still  love  me.  Even  that 
will  console  a  heart  ready  to  break.  Come,  Charles,  oh !  come,  and  see  your 
poor  Jane  once  more." 

Such  was  the  pdrport  of  the  letter  written  by  that  simple  girl. 
It  is  astonishing  how  the  mind  becomes  quickened  by  the  passion 
of  love.  Jane  had  never  attempted  letter-writing  before,  but  now 
that  her  heart  was  breaking,  an  impulse  was  given  to  her  intellect. 
Language  seemed  to  come  to  her  intuitively,  and  without  an  effort. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

rt  Oh  I  that  I  had  not  loved  —for  thus  to  be 
The  husband  of  a  woman  now  I  loathe, 
Is  worse  than  death— but  stay,  a  moment  hold ! 
There's  one  way  left."— OLD  PLAT. 

HARLES  was  now  the  most  wretched  being  in  existence. 
What  to  do  he  did  not  know.     He  dreaded  the  disclosure 
of  the  marriage,  and  he  had  become  weary  of  her  he  had 
so  much  loved.     Could  he  take  her  home?     No. 
He  was  riding  one  morning  with  his  servant,  and  the  thought 
struck  him  that  he  might  bribe  him  to  carry  her  off  to  parts  unknown. 
"  Would  you,"  said  he  to  his  servant,  "  like  that  pretty  girl  for  a 
partner." 
50 


394  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

"I  don't  understand  you,  sir,"  replied  the  servant. 

"  I  am  weary  of  her,  and  fearful  that  my  marriage  will  be  dis- 
covered by  my  mother.  If  you  will  dispose  of  her,  you  shall  be 
well  rewarded." 

"I  understand  you,  sir,  and  I  can  do  that  in  shcrt  order  if  you 
pay  me  well  for  it.  How  would  you  like  to  have  her  disposed  of? 
I  mean,  what  mode  of  stopping  her  breath?" 

"  Villain,"  cried  Charles,  as  he  grasped  him  by  the  collar,  "  dare 
to  hint  at  suchta  thing  as  harming  one  hair  of  her  head,  and  this 
instant  your  life  shall  pay  the  forfeit." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  sir,  I  did  not  understand  you." 

"I  meant,"  said  Charles,  soothinglyj  "that  you  should  take  her 
away,  south  or  west,  I  care  not  which,  so  that  she  will  never  be 
seen  here;  and  for  doing  so  I  have  a  considerable  sum  of  money, 
which  shall  be  yours." 

"  Oh!  if  that's  all,  sir,"  replied  the  hard-hearted  wretch,  "  I  can 
accommodate  you.  I'll  qarry  h^r  where  you  will  never  see  her 
again,  I'll  warrant  you,  sir,  and  all  that  I  ask  of  you  is  that  liber- 
ality you  promised." 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  Charles,  delighted  -with  the  opportunity 
to  hide  what  he  had  done,  and  to  gratify  his  mother  by  wedding 
Caroline.  "You  shall  have  it.  And  now  for  the  manner  of 
accomplishing  the  act.  You  must  go  to  her,  and  tell  her  that  I 
sent  for  her.  Call  upon  her  in  the  night  and  bid  her  be  hasty; 
that  I  am  impatient  to  see  her.  She  does  not  know  the  road,  and 
you  can  arrive  with  her  at  Philadelphia  ere  she  will  be  aware  of  the 
trick.  Then  tell  her  that  she  is  to  be  carried,  by  steamboat,  down 
the  Delaware,  to  where  we  reside." 

A  bargain  was  struck,  and  that  night  was  fixed  on  for  the  per- 
petration of  the  act.  The  servant  received  the  money,  and,  in  the 
afternoon,  took  his  way  to  the  residence  of  Sal.  About  midnight 
•he  arrived;  knocked  at  the  door;  and  in  an  instant  Jane  was  up, 
for  she  suspected  Charles  had  come.  Her  disappointment  was 
great,  but  at  the  announcement  that  she  was  to  be  carried  to  the 
residence  of  Charles,  her  fears  subsided,  and  she  hastily  put  on 
her  bonnet  and  the  blue  mantle,  and  made  preparation  to  depart. 

Sal  was  truly  glad  to  see  her  go,  as  there  was  no  more  money 
forthcoming,  and  that  was  the  idol  of  her  heart.  Indeed  she  was 
quite  impudent  in  her  remarks,  which  Jane,  however,  did  not  stop 
to  hear.  Werner,  her  attendant,  assured  her  so  solemnly  that  she 
was  to  be  received  with  open  arms,  that  her  mind  became  exhilarated, 
and  she  enquired,  particularly,  of  what  manner  of  woman  Madame 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  395 

De  Beaumont  was.  Werner,  with  the  wily  tongue  of  a  villain, 
gave  her  a  glowing  description  of  the  kindness  in  store  for  her, 
and  how  anxious  the  whole  family  were  to  press  her  to  their  arms, 
and  acknowledge  her  as  a  daughter.  Poor  Jane  believed  every 
word,  and  wiped  away  every  tear.  A  new  prospect  opened  before 
her,  and  she  believed  as  implicitly  in  the  truth,  of  what  she  heard 
from  Werner,  as  she  had  done  in  the  protestations  of  Charles. 
How  credulous  is  the  pure  and  open  heart,  when  it  once  gives 
way  to  the  blandishments  of  love.  It  is  ready  to  receive  aught 
that  has  a  tendency  to  cherish  its  predilections. 

Thus  did  Werner  lead  on  the  unsuspecting  girl.  With  almost 
superhuman  fortitude,  she  bore  the  weary  walk;  no  fatigue  was 
too  great  for  her  delicate  limbs,  if  she  might  once  more  feel  the 
throbbing  of  his  heart,  who  had  wooed  her  to  loVe.  She  even 
felt  that  she  could  expire  in  his  arms,  if  upon  her  dying  ear  could 
fall  such  sentiments  as  he  had  once  breathed  to  her. 

In  a  small  vessel  at  Philadelphia,  the  captain  of  which  Werner 
knew,  he  took  passage,  for  Jane  and  himself,  t6  the  West  Indies, 
bidding  the  captain  to  inform  her,  that  he  was  bound  for  the 
Brandy  wine.  Oh!  how  her  heart  glowed  as  the  sails  of  the  craft 
bent  in  beauty  to  the  breeze;  and  her  eye  was  kept  strained  for  a 
glimpse  of  that  land,  where  all  that  she  loved  now  dwelt.  But  she 
was  unacquainted  with  the  navigation  of  the  river,  and  she  could 
not  know  when  she  came  to  the  Brandywine.  Nevertheless  she 
was  happy  in  what  Werner  had  told  her,  and  so  confident  was 
she  that  he  would  not  deceive  her,  that  she  rested  perfectly  satis- 
fied. A  pure  heart  that  is  conscious  in  itself  that  it  would  not 
deceive,  is  slow  to  suspect  deception  in  another. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Alas  !  'tis  she — that  poor  unfortunate — 
And  he's  the  man  who  did  the  horrid  deed, 
Abhorrent  to  our  nature." 

[HARLES  had  been  so  particular  as  to  watch  the  steps  of 
Werner  to  Philadelphia,  and  had  satisfied  himself  that  he 
was  gone  with  Jane.  He  now  breathed  more  freely,  but 
he  was  far  from  being  happy,  for  the  conscience  with  a 
scorpion  tongue  lashed  his  guilty  soul.  He  felt  that  he  had  betrayed 
a  gentle,  generous  heart  that  sincerely  loved  him,  and  the  con- 


396  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

sciousness  that  he  had  promised  his  mother  to  wed  his  cousin 
Caroline,  wrung  his  soul  with  agony.  He  was  about  to  impose 
himself  upon  one  who  knew  not  that  he  was  the  husband  of 
another,  and  he  writhed  under  the  anguish  of  conscious  guilt. 

Madame  De  Beaumont  was  in  an  ecstacy  of  pleasure,  that 
what  she  had  so  long  and  so  devoutly  wished,  was  about  to  be 
consummated :  nor  was  Caroline  less  happy.  Charles  had  solemnly 
pledged  himself,  and  the  day  was  rapidly  rolling  on.  Preparations 
were  being  made  on  a  grand  scale,  that  the  nuptials  might  be 
celebrated  with  great  pomp  and  circumstance.  Madame  De 
Beaumont  was  active  in  the  matter,  and  was  determined  that  no 
expense  should  be  spared,  and  no  effort  that  would  have  a  ten- 
dency to  give  eclat  to  the  occasion. 

The  nearer  the  day  came,  the  more  wretched  was  Charles.  He 
was  in  constant  dread,  lest  by  some  accident  Jane  should  return, 
and  expose  his  perfidy.  How  could  he  meet  her,  whose  young, 
pure  heart  he  had  wooed  and  won,  and  then  betrayed  ?•  The 
thought  was  madness. 

It  was  on  the  day  before  that  on  which  his  marriage  was  to  be 
solemnized,  that  Charles  wandered  down  the  Brandywine  to  its 
mouth,  where  he  saw  a  boat,  and  three  or  four  men  anxiously  sur- 
veying something  in  the  water.  As  he  approached  nearer  he  heard 
one  of  the  men  say — "This  is  the  body  of  the  boatman's  daugh- 
ter, I  believe;  though  it  has  been  in  the  river  so  long  that  I 
can't  recognize  the  face.  Here's  the  blue  mantle  that  she  always 
wore." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  struck  Charles,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
startled. 

"  Gracious  heaven,"  he  mentally  exclaimed,  "  then  the  villain 
has  murdered  the  poor,  dear  Jane!  I  am  a  blasted  man.  I  shall 
be  charged  with  hiring  the  villain  to  do  the  deed." 

"Why,  Mr.  De  Beaumont,  what  makes  you  look  so  ghastly?" 
enquired  one  of  the  men,  who  saw  him  shaking  as  with  an  ague. 
"  God  forbid,  sir,  that  you  had  any  hand  in  it!" 

"  I — I — I  never  told  bim  to  do  such  a  damnable  deed,"  stam- 
mered Charles,  not  knowing  what  he  said. 

"  There's  something  strange  about  that  man's  actions."  said 
another  of  the  men.  "  If  he  has  not  had  some  hand  in  the 
matter,  he  must  be  beside  himself.  Look  at  him — I'll  wager  a 
shilling  that  he  knows  something  about  it." 

"Well,  I  think  so  too,"  said  a  third,  looking  steadfastly  at 
Charles. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    ,BARD.  397 

In  the  meantime  several  men  came  to  the  spot,  among  whom 
was  Johnny,  the  boatman.  The  moment  he  saw  the  mutilated 
body  in  the  water,  he  cried  out— "That  is  my  daughter.  Yes, 
yes;  it  is  her  dress." 

Notwithstanding  his  former  cruelty,  he  gazed  upon  the  body 
for  a  moment,  and  falling  upon  his  knees,  with  his  hands  and 
eyes  uplifted  to  heaven,  burst  into  tears. 

Charles,  in  the  meantime,  had  fled  he  knew  not  whither.  The 
body  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  was  conveyed  to  the  cottage  of  the 
boatman,  and  after  the  usual  jury  was  held,  was  buried.  Though 
so  much  mutilated  every  one  agreed  from  the  dress  and  other 
particulars  that  it  was  no  other  than  the  unfortunate  Jane. 

The  story  of  the  absence  of  Jane  from  home  had  not  excited 
much  curiosity,  but  now  that  it  was  discovered  that  she  was 
drowned,  every  one  was  running  to  know  about  it.  The  absence 
of  Charles  De  Beaumont  now,  too,  roused  public  curiosity,  and 
rumor  on  rumor  went  abrqad.  Werner,  the  servant  of  Charles, 
had  told  some  of  his  secrets  to  his  particular  friends,  and  thus  a 
cry  was  raised  which  led  on  the  search  of  Wild  Sal,  who  at  once 
told  the  whole  story  of  how  Charles  carried  off  Jane;  was  married; 
and  how  he  deserted  her. 

By  degrees  the  whole  history  of  the  matter  was  brought  to  light, 
and  great  was  the  consternation  of  Madame  De  Beaumont  and 
Caroline,  who  were  constrained  to  believe,  that  if  Charles  did  not 
murder  the  poor  girl,  he  was  equally  guilty  in  the  eye  of  the  law, 
in  having  paid  his  servant  to  do  so.  Weeping  and  wailing  alone 
were  heard  in  those  aristocratic  halls  for  some  time.  Wretched 
was  that  mother,  for  having  thwarted  the  wishes  of  her  son,  and 
in  having  compelled  him  to  pledge  himself  to  Caroline. 

Every  means  were  used  to  discover  the  retreat  of  Charles,  for 
some  time,  but  without  effect.  No  one  could  give  any  tidings  of  him. 
Time  passed  on,  and  the  excitement  in  a  measure  passed  away, 
thpugh  the  circumstance  was  not  forgotten.  A  rumor  was  circu- 
lated that  he  was  in  New  York,  and  a  requisition  was  sent  on 
for  him,  and,  what  was  singular,  he  was  arrested  at  the  very 
moment  that  he  had  met  Werner,  and  in  his  phrenzy  was  abusing 
him.  Both  were  thrown  into  prison,  to  await  the  demand  for 
them  which  was  not  long  in  coming.  They  were  both  brought 
back,  and  thrown  into  a  dungeon  to  await  their  trial. 


398  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


.   .CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  the  scene, 
And  all  was  new." 

)HO  can  imagine  the  wretchedness  of  that  young  man, 
as  he  lay  incarcerated  in  a  dreary  dungeon?  What 
could  he  expect?  Circumstances  were  strongly 
against  him,  as,  in  unguarded  moments,  language 
had  escaped  him,  which  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  any  unprejudiced 
mind  that  he  was  guilty  of  having  caused  her  death,  if  he  did  not 
perform  the  act  with  his  own  hand.  Worse  than  all,  Werner, 
finding  that  Charles  had  breathed  language  calculated  to  convict 
him,  resolved  to  turn  State's  evidence,  as  he  had  become  incensed, 
and  sacrifice  the  life  of  Charles  to  save  his  own. 

Charlesi  .was  stretched  on  the  floor  of  his  dungeon,  when  he 
heard  the  raftling  of  bars;  the  massive  iron  door  swung  open,  and 
with  screams,  h,is  mother  and  Caroline  rushed  in. 

"Oh!  Charles,  my  son,  my  unfortunate  son,  your  miserable 
mother  has  murdered  you  !  Oh!  how  madly  I  have  acted!  Would 
to  heaven,  my  child,  that  I  had  never  crossed  your  path  in  love, 
then  might  I  have  escaped  the  agonies  I  feel." 

"Ah!  my  mother,  it  is  my  destiny.  I  loved  Jane  to  madness, 
and  strange  it  was  that  love  should  so  soon  grow  cold.  I  loved 
her  with  all  the  devotion  that  is  known  to  the  human  heart,  but  in 
one  dark  hour  it  was  gone.  But  I  did  not  murder  her." 

•'No,  Charles,"  cried  Caroline,  "you  could  not  be  guilty  of  such 
an  act.  Ah!  would  that  you  had  loved  Jane  still;  and  were  she 
here  now,  I  would  place  her  in  your  arms,  but  to  restore  you  to 
what  you  were." 

"  Fain  would  I  take  her  to  my  arms  as  my  daughter,"  exclaimed 
Madame  De  Beaumont,  "  and  love  her  for  your  sake,  could  I  only 
recall  the  dreadful  fate  that  I  fear  hangs  over  you," 

Charles  in  the  anguish  of  his  soul  arose  with  his  clanking  chain, 
and  throwing  himself  into  the  arms  of  his  mother,  burst  into  a 
passionate  fit  of  weeping.  He  looked  haggard  and  miserable,  for 
his  heart  was  now  preying  upon  itself  in  vain  regrets.  From  that 
gloomy  home,  in  which  unfortunate  love  had  entombed  Charles,  his 
mother  and  cousin  departed  ;  but  not  without  a  promise  to  be  with 
him  to  the  last  extremity  of  his  peril.  When  they  were  gone,  the 
learned  legal  gentleman  whom  he  had  employed  entered,  and 
conferred  with  him  in  regard  to  the  evidence  of  him  who  had  re- 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARU.  399 

solved  to  sacrifice  his  life.  Werner  had  declared  that  Charles 
bribed  him  to  make  way  with  the  unhappy  Jane,  and  his  evidence, 
if  not  upset  by  other  testimony,  must  devote  him  to  ignominious 
death.  +  -*-: ''  '  „ 

This  information  threw  the  wretched  man  into  still  greater 
wretchedness.  He  knew  of  no  witness  who  could  rebut  the  testi- 
mony of  Werner,  and  the  powers  of  his  mind  were  so  prostrated 
that  he  could  not  summon  energy  to  reflect  on  the  matter.  Like 
other  men  who  had  trod  the  stage  of  life,  he  had  placed  hims3lf 
in  difficulty  without  being  conscious  of  crime,  save  that  which  had 
been  the  result  of  love,  and  even  that  he  could  now  hardly  con- 
sider a  crime,  as  he  had  acted  entirely  without  malice  in  the  case. 
His  soul  had  been  swayed  by  that  passion,  and  he  felt  that  he  had 
acted  from  the  influence  of  impulses  that  he  could  no  more  con- 
trol than  he  could  the  throbbing  of  the  heart  that  had  been  the 
seat  of  the  passion  that  gave  rise  to  those  impulses.  He  felt  that 
love  had  made  a  fool  of  him,  as  it  does  of  all  men  ;  arra  he  thought 

*  '         •    •  o 

that  it  was  hard  he  should  suffer  for  that  which  he  could  not  con- 
trol, and  for  that  which  he  did  not  commit. 

Every  day  his  mother  visited  him,  and  poured  out  her  vain  re- 
grets that  she  had  endeavored  to  sway  him  in  that  passion  which 
she  felt  in  her  own  case  was  uncontrollable.  Every  day  did  she 
weep  upon  his  bosom,  and  deplore  the  sad  situation  in  which  he 
was  placed.  Ah  !  what  would  not  that  mother  have  given  could 
she  now  have  recalled  what  she  had  done  !  But  it  was  too  late — 
Oh!  yes,  it  was  too  late — her  child,  her  idolized  child,  would  be 
sacrificed — the  pride  of  her  family  blasted — her  own  happiness 
destroyed — all,  all  in  consequence  of  her  own  folly !  If  possible, 
her  soul  writhed  with  greater  agony  than  that  which  rent  the  bo- 
som of  Charles,  and  it  would  have  touched  any  heart  to  have 
marked  that  mother  as  she  wended  her  way  into  the  prison  at  New 
Castle,  and  to  have  seen  her  in  the  gloom  of  the  dungeon  on  her 
knees  before  her  Charles — her  hands  uplifted,  and  her  eyes  stream- 
ing with  tears,  while  she  implored  God  to  save  him.  She  could 
not  now  upbraid  him — Oh !  no,  she  had  come  to  her  reason — she 
had  forgotten  that  accursed  love  of  money — she  felt  that  he  had 
wished  to  love  as  she  had  loved  herself — she  felt  that  he  had  wished 
to  love  with  that  idolatry  that  knows  but  the  one  worshiped  image, 
regardless  of  all  the  extraneous  idols  to  which  the  human  heart 
often  bows  down. 

But  the  day  on  which  Charles  was  to  be  tried  for  his  life  rolled 
on.  It  was  a  beautiful  morn  to  those  in  whose  souls  there  was  no 


400  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

shadow  of  grief;  but  ah !  to  Charles  it  was  anything  but  lovely, 
though  he  had  so  long  pondered  on  the  gloomy  prospect,  that  he 
had  become  in  a  measure  careless.  It  is  strange  how  the  soul 
will  become  reconciled,  by  deliberation,  to  what  at  first  it  started 
from  with  the  utmost  horror!  The  prospect  of  death  to  Charles 
was  in  the  beginning  terrific,  but  he  had  contemplated  it  so  long, 
that  he  had  gradually  made  up  his  mind  that  the  grim  king  was 
not  so  appalling  as  he  had  been  represented.  It  has  been  said 
that  persons  will  sleep  soundly  on  the  night  before  their  execu- 
tion, as  was  the  case  with  the  son  of  General  Castine,  in  France, 
and  so  did  Charles,  after  his  great  grief  for  the  loss  of  Jane.  In 
his  dreams  that  night  he  saw  her,  as  he  had  seen  her  when  he  first 
loved  her;  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  loved  her  when  he 
awoke  with  the  same  devotion  that  he  had  felt  before.  How  will- 
ingly would  he  have  welcomed  her  to  his  arms,  could  he  have  re- 
called her  from  the  sombre  silence  and  solitude  of  the  grave ! 
Again  was  the  smile  of  that  sweet  girl  lovely  to  his  gaze,  and  he 
wondered  how  he  could  have  repudiated  so  much  of  woman's 
witchery  and  loveliness. 

But  to  proceed  While  Charles  was  thinking  of  her  he  had  so 
fondly  loved  and  so  basely  betrayed,  the  summons  came  for  him  to 
appear  before  that  awful  bar  which  was  to  dispense  to  him  life  or 
death.  He  had  become  careless  of  the  result,  as  his  love  for  Jane 
had  now  returned,  and  if  his  life  were  spared,  he  could  not  be 
happy  without  her. 

I  shall  describe  to  the  reader,  in  few  words,  the  scene  that  fol- 
lowed, and  the  fate  of  the  miserable  young  man.  Dressed  in  deep 
mourning,  Madame  De  Beaumont  took  her  seat  in  the  box  with 
her  son,  and  listened  attentively  to  the  proceedings  of  the  court. 
She  had  vainly  supposed  that  she  had  managed  to  kill  the  testi- 
mony of  Werner,  but  when  he  appeared,  and  swore  positively  that 
Charles  had  given  him  a  sum  of  money  to  murder  Jane,  and  she 
saw  the  effect  of  his  evidence  on  the  jury,  her  heart  failed — she 
saw  that  he  was  doomed. 

Werner  declared  that  Charles  hired  him  to  murder  Jane,  but 
that  he  at  first  relented  on  account  of  her  sweet,  gentle  disposi- 
tion— that  he  resolved  in  his  own  mind  to  take  her  to  the  West 
Indies — that  while  going  down  the  river,  he  took  her  in  a  boat, 
under  pretence  that  she  was  to  be  landed  and  carried  to  the  resi- 
dence of  her  husband. 

"But  why,  sir,  did  you  take  her  in  the  boat?"  demanded  the 
lawyer  of  Charles. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  401 

"  Because,  sir,  she  spied  the  cottage  of  her  father,  and  declared 
'that  if  she  were  carried  any  further,  she  would  throw  herself 
into  the  river.  I  then  took  the  boat,  told  the  captain  that  I  would 
return  ere  his  anchor  was  raised,  and  departed." 

"  And  you  threw  her  overboard  ?" 

"I  did." 

"  What  followed  ?" 

"I  returned  to  the  vessel — was  cast  away,  outside  the  Capes — 
clung  to  a  planks-reached  the  shore  after  much  suffering,  and 
came  to  testify  against  him  who  induced  me  to  do  the  deed." 

The  jury,  after  hearing  all  the  evidence,  retired  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  returned  into  courh 

"Well,  sir,  Mn  Foreman,  what  say  you,  is  this  man  guilty  or 
not  guilty?" 

"  GUILTY  OF  MURDER  IN  THE  FIRST  DEGREE  !" 

A  wild  and  piercing  shriek  broke  from  the  lips  of  Madame  De 
Beaumont,  and  she  fell  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  Charles,  who  sat 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy,  as  if  unconscious  of  all  that  was 
passing  around  him.  The  sympathising  spectators  bore  the  un- 
happy mother  from  the  scene  of  her  sorrow,  while  Charles  was 
conducted  by  an  officer  back  to  that  dungeon  from  whence  he 
should  never  again  proceed  but  as  a  corpse. 

Let  us  now  drop  a  veil  over  the  miseries  of  that  mother,  whose 
love  of  lucre  was  the  cause  of  this  scene  of  wretchedness.  It 
would  be  vain  to  attempt  to  picture  the  scenes  which  afterwards 
passed  between  Charles  and  his  mother,  when  she  came  to  tell 
him  the  time  that  was  fixed  for  him  to  die,  and  of  the  efforts  she 
incessantly  made  to  save  him  from  the  doom. 

It  touched  the  soul  of  the  Governor  to  sensibility  when  she  ap- 
peared before  him,  in  her  weeds,  to  plead  for  the  life  of  her  only 
child.  Tears  gushed  from  his  eyes,  as  she  knelt  humbly  before 
him. 

"Save,  oh!  save,  sir,"  cried  the  weeping  mother,  "the  first-born 
of  my  heart." 

"  Madam,"  said  the  Governor,  as  he  wiped  the  tears  from  his 
eyes,  "it  would  give  me  joy  to  gratify  a  parent,  but  justice,  stern 
justice  bids  me  refuse." 

After  many  mournful  appeals  to  his  sympathy,  she  turned  and 
left  him  with  the  conviction  that  her  son  was  doomed,  by  the  irre- 
vocable decrees  of  fate,  to  die.  Sad,  sad  were  her  thoughts,  as 
she  day  after  day  entered  the  gloomy  prison  to  look  again  on  her 
unhappy  son.  There  he  lay,  night  after  night,  thinking  of  that 
51 


402  WRITINGS  OF  'THE  MILFORD  BARD. 

sweet  girl  whose  life  he  had  unintentionally  destroyed,  and  for 
which  he  was  to  die. 

It  was  a  gloomy  night  in  December,  that  Charles  stood  at  the 
window  of  the  prison,  and  anxiously  gazed  for  the  coming  of  his 
mother.  A  presentiment  had  seized  him  that  she  would  bring 
him  happy  tidings,  for  the  next  was  the  day  on  which  he  was  to 
die.  But  she  came  not,  and  he  stretched  himself  on  the  floor  in 
perfect  resignation  to  his  fate.  With  the  consciousness  that  the 
next  sun  would  cast  its  last  lingering  rays  on  his  grave,  he  gave 
himself  to  sleep,  and  in  that  sleep,  what  an  elysium  appeared 
before  him !  The  sweet,  the  darling  Jane,  was  again  locked  in 
his  arms,  and  he  was  happy  in  the  smiles  of  his  mother,  who  re- 
cognized Jane  as  her  daughter  with  rapture.  Oh !  how  hard  was 
it  that  the  cold  reality  should  break  in  upon  him  ! 

Charles  was  roused  from  his  dream  by  the  thunder  of  the  iron 
bar  at  the  door,  and  the  entrance  of  the  very  representatives  of  the 
phantoms  of  his  dream. 

"  Dear  Charles,"  screamed  his  mother,  in  an  ecstasy,  "  here  is 
Jane,  your  wife — oh !  take  her  to  your  arms,  and  we  will  be  happy 
again !" 

At  the  name  of  Jane,  Charles  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  clasped 
her.  It  was  indeed  Jane — but  how  did  she  appear  again  in  life  ? 
Was  she  not  drowned  ?  No.  The  blue  mantle,  which  Charles 
had  so  much  loved,  saved  her  from  a  watery  grave,  and  soon  did 
the  joyful  tidings  fly,  and  soon  was  Charles  liberated  to  be  a  happier 
man  than  he  had  ever  been  ;  for  wheT/he  found  that  Jane  had  de- 
termined to  save  his  life,  though  she  too  must  have  thought  him 
guilty,  he  adored  her  for  her  devotion. 

When  Werner  threw  her  in  the  water,  he  hastily  put  back  his 
boat  to  the  vessel,  and  never  turned  his  guilty  eye  to  look  upon 
his  drowning  victim.  Buoyed  by  her  clothes,  the  lovely  Jane 
clung  to  a  piece  of  floating  wreck,  and  was  thrown  on  the  shore 
of  New  Jersey.  Exhausted,  pale,  and  apparently  lifeless,  the  dear 
little  Jane  was  discovered  by  a  fisherman's  son,  who  was  struck 
with  her  charms.  She  had  nobly  struggled  to  save  herself,  and  the 
young  man  saw  her  just  as  she  had  crawled  upon  the  shore.  With 
that  feeling  which  lives  in  the  breast  of  boy  or  man,  he  gazed 
upon  her,  nor  long  did  he  gaze  ere  he  raised  her  to  her  feet,  and 
generously  supporting  her,  bore  her  to  the  humble  home  of  his 
mother,  a  widow.  Here  a  fever  seized  her,  consequent  on  the 
anxiety  and  fatigue  she  had  undergone,  and  for  a  long  time  she 
was  delirious.  The  young  man  hung  around  her  during  her  long 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  403 

illness,  and  in  the  act  of  ministering  to  a  suffering  fellow-being, 
loved  her.  Apropos !  how  often  have  the  souls  of  man  and  wo- 
man been  blended  in  a  sick  room !  How  often  have  those  deli- 
cate attentions  which  are  rendered  to  one  in  sickness,  been  re- 
warded by  the  adoration  of  the  heart ! 

But  when  reason  dawned  on  Jane,  she  heard  of  what  had  tran- 
spired, and  fled  from  the  spot  to  save  him  whom  she  loved  above 
all  else. — Oh!  how  great  are  our  joys  after  great  griefs,  and  thus 
it  now  was  with  those  whose  history  I  have  given. 

Madame  De  Beaumont  had  cause  to  thank  God  that  Charles  had 
followed  the  dictates  of  his  own  heart.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there 
a  lovelier  or  more  exemplary  pair  than  they,  for  their  hearts  ap- 
peared to  have  become  chastened  by  the  anguish  they  had  under- 
gone. All  were  happy — all  rejoiced.  The  love  of  Charles  and 
Jane  seemed  to  be  cemented  by  the  strongest  of  all  ties — tfy 
affliction.  All  our  joys  are  in  proportion  to  our  sorrows,  and  if 
one  should  say  that  he  had  enjoyed  unmarred  happiness,  there 
would  be  no  truth  in  the  assertion. 

Years  passed  away,  and  the  children  of  Charles  and  Jane  con- 
versed of  the  happiness  enjoyed  by  their  parents.  There  is  one 
descendant  now,  who  blooms  and  blushes  along  the  streets  of  Wil- 
mington, in  whose  lovely  face  still  lingers  the  lineaments  of  Jane 
— on  whose  cheek  is  still  seen  her  sweet  smile.  Reader,  if  you  often 
walk  on  Third  Street,  you  cannot  mistake  her,  for  she  is  the  very 
personification  of  love  and  beauty.  You  will  know  her  by  the 
blue  mantle  she  wears  in  Remembrance  of  her  mother. 


!0nrt|j. 


DEAR  Woman,  wert  thou  from  us  hurl'd, 

No  more  our  hearts  to  bless; 
Life  were  a  curse,  and  all  the  world 

A  waste,  a  wilderness; 
By  thee  we  gain  all  earthly  bliss, 

Thy  hand  doth  wipe  the  tear, 
And  from  thy  lips  one  heart-warm  kiss 

Will  be  to  memory  dear. 


404  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


Conu? 


WHY  don't  he  come? — no  footstep  falls 

Upon  the  lone,  deserted  street; 
His  much  loved  form  within  these  walls, 

I  do  not  now  so  often  greet. 

There  was  a  time  when- even  a  word, 
(Ah!  would  to  heaven  it  were  so  now;) 

Would  bid  him  fly  like  some  swift  bird 
To  breathe,  even  at  my  feet,  his  vow. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  claim 

A  father  and  a  mother's  care; 
I  thought  not  then  that  I  with  shame 

Should  ever  thus  my  woes  declare. 

Neglected  wife! — Oh,  oft  those  words, 
A  keen  and  killing  pang  impart; 

More  thrilling  than  a  thousand  swords, — 
Than  poison 'd  daggers  to  the  heart. 

There,  in  its  cradle,  sleeps  my  child, 
Unconscious  of  its  mother's  wrongs; 

It  knows  not  know  my  brain  runs  wild, 
When  breathing  love's  neglected  songs. 

Even  on  its  face  I  see  him  smile, 
My  husband's  smile,  that  still  endears; 

Oh!  let  me  gaze  on  it  awhile, 

It  minds  me  of  those  happy  years 

When  sorrow  knew  no  resting  place 
Within  this  heart,  then  used  to  joy; 

Oh!  would  that  I  could  now  retrace 

Those  happy  days,  my  slumbering  boy! 

Why  don't  he  come? — 'Tis  midnight  now, 
And  still  I  weep  o'er  his  delay; 

There  was  a  time  he  kept  his  vow, 
And  thought  an  age  one  hour  away. 

Has  he  forgot  his  Ellen? — Nay, 

Has  some  fair  form  his  fondness  won? 

That  thought  is  madness;  hence,  away! 
If  I  but  dream  it  I'm  undone. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  405 

Ah!  sooner  in  my  breast  I'd  feel, 

The  glittering  dagger's  keenest  smart; 
Than  to  my  soul  that  truth  reveal, 

Than  know  another  claim 'd  his  heart. 

For  oh!  to  woman's  love  belongs 

Eternity — time  cannot  kill; 
I  love  him  even  with  all  my  wrongs, 

With  all  his  faults  I  love  him  still. 


ifr*  Charmer. 

OH!  let  me  lean  upon  that  bosom,  where 
I've  felt  the  raptures  angels  only  feel; 

And  while  I  feel  thy  fond  heart  beating  there, 
Once  more  the  feelings  of  my  own  reveal! 

Then  on  that  red,  luxurious  lip  of  love, 

Where  I  have  sigh'd,  oh!  let  me  sigh  once  more! 
And  while  I  dream,  as  angels  dream  above, 

Oh!  let  me  linger  still,  and   still  adore! 

*  '•*-'* . 
And  while  on  thy  voluptuous  lip  I  sigh, 

And  my  soul  melts  in  pure  ecstatic  bliss; 
Oh!  let  me  gaze  upon  thy  bright  blue  eye, 

For  if  on  earth  there's  heav'n,  it  must  be  this. 

When  I  have  sat,  and  silently  have  gazed 
Into  that  dark  blue  dazzling  eye,  there  broke 

A  language,  in-  the  light  that. from  it  blazed, 
More  eloquent  than  Grecian  sages  spoke. 

Oh!  yes,  it  told  how  deeply  thou  did'st  love, 
How  thy  heart  beat  in  unison  with  mine; 

Then  when  I  rush'd  into  thine  arms,  my  dove, 
I  felt  a  bliss  as  pure  as  'twas  divine. 

For  in  that  little  heart,  that  oft  I've  felt 

Beating  against  my  bosom,  there's  no  guile; 

Tis  pure  as  aught  to  which  man  ever  knelt, — 
The  light  of  virtue  lives  e'en  in  thy  smile. 

Oh!  I  have  heard  thy  gentle  bosom  sigh, 
When  blasted  by  the  bowl,  I  did  thee  seek; 


406  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

I've  seen  the  big  tear,  from  thy  beauteous  eye, 
Roll  sorroiKully  down  thy  charming  cheek. 

And  when  I  chided  thee,  the  lovely  laugh, 
From  thy  red  lips,  broke  sweetly  on  mine  ear; 

Ne'er  did  the  gods,  on  high  Olympus,  quaff 
With  such  delight,  as  I  that  laugh  did  hear. 

For  never  did  the  gods  such  nectar  sip, 
And  ne'er  did  harp  of  heav'n  such  music  make; 

As  1  have  found  on  thy  ambrosial  lip, 
And  in  its  liquid  lapses  heard  to  break. 

Oh !  shall  we  ever  meet  again  on  earth  ? 

Shall  I  again  enjoy  that  killing  kiss? 
One  moment  of  such  luxury  is  worth 

A  whole  eternity  of  common  bliss. 

Thou  Charmer,  love  is  not  the  offspring  base 
Of  wild  desires,  that  o'er  the  bosom  roll; 

No,  well  thou  know'st  'tis  of  a  heavenly  race, — 
Angel  of  earth,  and  Syren  of  the  soul. 


THERE  once  was  a  time,  in  a  beautiful  bower, 
When  Cupid  mourned'  over  the  fall  of  his  art; 

From  a  change  in  the  fashions  Love  lost  all  his  power, 
For  no  lady  would  let  him  come  into  her  heart. 

The  ladies  all  cried,  what  a  pitiful  creature 
Dan  Cupid  must  be,  in  his  homespun  attire; 

No  splendor  about  him  in  form  or  in  feature, 
Nay,  nothing  the  hearts  of  the  fair  to  inspire. 

Dan  Cupid  was  then  a  plain  lad,  without  fashion, 
He  loved  the  fair  sex  when  they  neatly  were  clad  5 

The  gay  and  the  dashy,  with  jewels  and  cash  on, 
Would 'nt  look  on  the  boy,  tho'  his  smile  was  so  sad. 

Never  mind,  said  young  Cupid,  one  day  in  the  bower, 
As  he  pointed  his  arrow  and  fixed  his  bow-strings; 

Like  woman  111  change,  to  regain  my  lost  power, 
And  ride  to  her  heart  on  a  butterfly's  wings. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  407 


o  a  /mnfo. 


You  ask  me  if  I've  loved — Oh!  yes, 

I've  bow'd  at  woman's  feet: 
And  felt  an  ecstasy,  a  bliss, 

That  was  divinely  sweet. 

Oh!  had  I  worship 'd  God,  as  I 

To  her  devout  have  been; 
I  should  not  breathe  a  wretch's  sigh, 

Or  be  a  child  of  sin. 

I've  sighed  on  woman's  lip  of  love, 

And  gazed  in  her  dark  eye; 
Until  I  thought  her  from  above, — 

An  angel  of  the  sky. 

E'en  now,  upon  my  lip,  I  feel 

Her  blissful  burning  kiss; 
And  fancy  that  again  I  steal 

That  harbinger  of  bliss. 
iff' 

Oh !  could  I  feel  the  luxury 
Of  love,  Jftat  I  have  felt, 
When  I  at  Beauty's  shrine,  my  knee, 
'In  deep  devotion,  knelt; 

I  fain  would  yield  my  lingering  breath 

Up  sweetly  in  her  arms; 
Enraptured  while  I  gazed$  in  death, 

On  her  bewitching  charms. 

But  ne'er,  oh!  ne'er  can  I,  again, 
Bow  down  at  beauty's  shrine; 

I  ne'er  can  wear  the  silken  chain, 
That  once  I  thought  divine. 

My  heart  is  now  the  lonely  tomb,    • 

In  which  love  lies  inurn'd; 
I  cannot  bear  again  the  doom — 

To  love  and  to  be  spurn 'd. 

My  soul  is  charmed  with  woman's  worth, 

On  her  dark  eye  I  gaze; 
But  ne'er  can  know  again  on  earth, 

The  dream  of  other  days. 


HELEN  MAC  TREVER: 

A   TALE    OF 

t  %%ltlt  0f  JBranlrgtonu. 


E  red  cloud  of  revolution  had  burst  with  all 
fits  fury  on  this  devoted  land,  and  the  thunders 
i  of  British  vengeance  were  reverberating  from 
'shore  to  shore,  at  the  period  of  which  T  write. 
General  Howe,  with  the  determination  of  enter- 
ing Philadelphia,  had  privately  put  to  sea,  leaving 
New  York  in  the  command  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton. 
On  the  20th  of  August,  1777,  he  entered  the 
Chesapeake  Bay,  and  soon  after  landed  his  army 
of  eighteen  thousand  men  at  Elk  Ferry,  in 
Maryland. 

The  people  of  the  Colonies,  tired  of  delay, 
urged  General  Washington  to  hazard  a  general 
engagement  to  save  Philadelphia;  though  his 
army,  which  had  just  been  recruited,  consisted 
of  only  between  nine  and  ten  thousand  men, 
many  of  whom  were  raw  militia.  Yielding,  however,  to  their 
wishes,  he  immediately  crossed  the  Delaware,  and  taking  his  way 
through  Philadelphia  marched  directly  to  meet  the  enemy.  On 
the  eastern  bank  of  Brandywine  creek,  within  sight  of  Chadd's 
Ford,  he  took  up. his  position,  and  calmly  awaited  the  enemy's 
approach. 

It  was  in  the  pensive  and  plenteous  month  of  September,  when 
the  husbandman  was  busy,  and  all  nature  had  begun  to  put  on 
the  aspect  of  decay,  when  the  sounds  of  the  camp  went  echoing 
down  the  hill,  which  now  lifts  its  only  head  over  as  lovely  a  land- 
scape as  the  surrounding  country  can  present.  Who  can  imagine 
the  reflections  of  those  who  had  left  their  homes,  their  wives  and 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  409 

children,  and  were  there  wailing  for  the  deadly  conflict,  which 
was  destined  to  stretch  twelve  hundred  of  them  stiff  and  stark  on 
the  gory  field?  It  was  an  awful  period,  for  that  battls  might  prove 
the  downfall  of  the  temple  of  liberty,  for  the  triumph  of  which  so 
many  noble  hearts  had  already  bled.  It  was  indeed  a  dark  period 
in  our  country's  history.  A  handful  of  devoted  and  dauntless 
men  were  standing  up  before  the  legions  of  the  most  powerful 
nation  on  the  globe,  which  not  satisfied  with  her  own  power, 
bought  Hessians  at  a  dollar  per  head,  and  employed  the  Indians 
to  aid  their  cause.  Well  may  we  hold  in  eternal,  grateful  remem- 
brance the  memory  of  those  illustrious  patriots  who  planned,  and 
the  brave  band  of  heroes  who  fought  and  fell  to  secure  those  in- 
estimable rights  which  we  now  enjoy. 

There  stood  on  the  western  bank  of  the  Brandywine  what  was 
at  that  time  considered  a  splendid  and  luxurious  farm-house,  of 
ancient  date,  said  to  have  been  erected  by  one  of  the  early  Scotch 
settlers,  no  trace  of  which  now  remains.  The  romantic  park  and 
pleasure-grounds  have  long  since  disappeared  before  the  axe,  and 
the  beautiful  garden  of  Helen  Mac  Trever,  laid  out  by  female  taste 
in  winding  walks,  and  graced  with  groves  and  shrubbery,  where 
she  often  sat  at  the  evening  hour  to  contemplate,  or  wandered  at 
midnight  to  muse  on  the  full  round  moon,  has  grown  up  in  weeds 
and  can  no  longer  be  distinguished  from  the  surrounding  fields. 
In  this  old-fashioned  though  sumptuous  mansion,  with  its  pro- 
jecting eves  and  balcony,  resided  Colonel  Mac  Trever,  the  father 
of  Helen,  and  formerly  an  officer  in  the  French  war.  Left  a  fortune 
by  his  father,  who  fell  during  his  childhood,  in  the  famous  battle  of 
Culloden  in  1746,  he  emigrated  in  early  life  to  Philadelphia,  where 
he  married;  this  farm  being  part  of  the  property  which  he  received 
with  his  wife.  Col.  Mac  Trever  had  but  two  children ;  a  daughter, 
Helen;  and  a  son,  Donald,  who  was  an  officer  in  the  American 
army.  Both  father  and  son  had  early  imbibed  the  love  of  liberty, 
and  espoused  with  heart  and  hand  the  cause  of  a  suffering  people, 
struggling  for  their  lights. 

Helen  Mac  Trever  was  a  singular  being,  and  seemed  to  have 
been  destined  for  the  period  of  darkness  and  danger  in  which  she 
had  been  born,  for  her  dauntless  spirit  nothing  could  intimidate. 
She  was  indeed  a  stranger  to  fear.  She  was  rather  above  the 
middle  stature,  and  graceful  in  her  symmetry  as  the  Venus  de 
Medicis.  Though  her  features  were  masculine,  and  her  com 
plexion  brown,  there  was  peculiar  beauty  in  the  brilliancy  of  her 
dark  and  dazxling  eye;  in  the  roses  that  ever  bloomed  on  her 
52 


410  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

cheek  and  lip;  and  in  the  angelic  smile  which  dimpled  her  cheek, 
when  pleasure  filled  her  young  and  susceptible  heart.  She  had 
attained  her  eighteenth  year,  and  never  was  there  a  woman  more 
fascinating  in  mind  or  manners  than  Helen  Mac  Trever,  for  she 
had,  unlike  the  flimsy  accomplishments  of  ladies  of  modern  times, 
acquired  in  Philadelphia  a  solid  education,  and  from  her  earliest 
years  had  applied  herself  diligently  to  the  acquisition  of  useful 
as  well  as  ornamental  knowledge.  She  was  particularly  versed 
in  history;  and  in  studying  the  characters  of  the  brave  Scottish 
heroes  and  heroines,  she  seemed  to  have  imbibed  their  spirit,  and 
to  have  become  in  turn  heroic.  She  had  accustomed  herself  to 
athletic  exercises,  and  she  was  peculiarly  picturesque  when  mounted 
on  her  gay  and  fiery  charger,  in  her  highland  costume,  which  she 
occasionally  wore  to  please  her  father,  when  flying  in  sport  over 
the  green  fields,  and  dashing  down  the  steep  hills.  No  lady,  of 
the  most  polished  class  of  the  present  day  is  more  bewitching  or 
winning  in  conversation,  than  was  Helen  Mac  Trever;  and  she 
never  visited  Wilmington  or  Philadelphia,  that  she  did  not  leave 
some  heart  to  ache  after  her  departure.  She  was  at  heart  a  true 
republican,  and  often  would  she  enthusiastically  exclaim — 
"Oh!  that  I  were  a  man,  that  by  the  side  of  my  brave  brother 
I  might  meet  the  bloody  Briton  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  pour 
out,  if  the  sacrifice  were  demanded,  my  heart's  best  blood  in  the 
sacred  cause  of  freedom." 

Helen  Mac  Trever  was  formed  by  nature  to  be  happy,  and  she 
was  happy;  though  in  musing  moments,  and  sometimes  in  con- 
versation, she  often  wept  over  the  gloomy  prospects  of  her  country. 
She  had  every  thing  that  could  conduce  to  happiness,  and  above 
all,  she  was  contented.  Almost  with  her  own  hands  she  had  bid 
an  Eden  to  bloom  around  her,  for  a  lovelier  garden  never  graced 
even  a  palace,  than  the  one  under  the  shade  of  whose  trees,  and 
in  the  groves  of  which,  she  often  spent  the  day  in  reading,  and 
the  moonlight  evening  in  reflecting  upon  the  heroic  deeds  of 
other  days. 

In  this  romantic  and  secluded  abode  were  the  days  of  Helen 
Mac  Trever  flowing  on  smoothly,  one  after  another,  like  the  gentle 
waves  of  a  summer  sea,  when  the  British  army  made  its  appearance, 
and  encamped  in  the  neighborhood.  How  changed  was  now  the 
scene!  The  silent  solitude,  scarcely  disturbed  before  by  any 
sound,  save  that  of  the  woodman's  axe;  the  lonely  tinkling  of  the 
cow-bell;  or  the  song  of  the  rustic  returning  home  in  the  evening 
to  rest;  was  now  filled  with  the  rattling  bustle  of  the  camp;  the 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  411 

rapid  tread  of  sentries  moving  to  and  fro ;  the  roll  of  the  reveille, 
and  the  confused  mingling  of  voices. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Helen  Mac  Trever  to  ride  her  fiery  charger 
every  day  along  the  road  that  runs  down  the  Brandywine,  and  from 
thence  strike  into  the  country  many  miles. 

"Dear  father,"  said  Helen  one  morning,  "I  am  almost  afraid  to 
venture  my  noble  charger  to-day." 

"Why  so,  my  child?"  enquired  the  father,  laying  down  his 
spectacles. 

"I  had  an  ugly  dream  last  night,  and  imagined  that  I  was  lost 
in  a  woodland,  from  whence  I  was  carried  off  by  a  stranger." 

"Poh!  poh  !  child,  do  you  believe  in  foolish  dreams?  Do  you 
not  know  that  Scripture  declares  that  fools  build  upon  dreams?" 

"But,  father,  Milton  also  tells  us,  that — 

'  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth, 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep;' 

and  may  they  not  be  commissioned  to  tell  us  of  our  danger? 
May  they  not  whisper  to  us  of  good  or  evil  during  our  dreams?" 

"  Why,  really  you  are  becoming  superstitious,"  returned  her 
father.  "I  thought  you  had  too  much  sense  to  entertain  such 
nonsense." 

"Ah!  father,  it  is  not  only  the  ignorant  who  are  superstitious, 
if  you  are  pleased  to  call  it  so.  Many  of  the  wisest  men  that 
ever  dignified  and  adorned  the  pages  of  history,  entertained 
such  nonsense,  and  believed  in  supernatural  revelations." 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  Colonel,  laughing,  "go,  take  your  ride, 
and  if  none  of  the  red-coats  carry  you  off,  I  am  satisfied." 

Helen  rose,  with  a  smile,  and  went  forth  to  her  steed  that  stood 
at  the  door.  Scarcely  had  she  gracefully  sprung  upon  the  saddle, 
for  young  ladies  were  not  so  delicately  helpless  then  as  now,  ere 
she  was  out  of  sight.  Revolutionary  ladies  were  accustomed  to 
ride  on  horseback,  and  it  is  for  the  want  of  the  wholesome  exercise 
that  they  indulged  in,  that  the  ladies  of  the  present  day  are  a  puny, 
sickly  race,  often  fading  away  with  consumption  in  the  bloom  and 
beauty  of  life. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning.  The  sunlight  rested  on  the  circum- 
ambient hills  as  calmly  as  a  smile  on  the  face  of  infancy.  Helen 
had  enjoyed  a  long  ride,  and  in  a  full  gallop,  was  returning  to  her 
happy  home,  when  suddenly  turning  an  angle  in  the  road,  her 
horse  espied  a  British  officer  in  full  uniform.  With  affright  he 
leaped  forward,  and  ran  down  the  road  with  the  speed  of  a  rein- 


412  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

deer.  Though  her  horse  became  ungovernable,  she  heroically 
kept  her  seat  in  the  saddle,  until  he  stumbled  and  threw  her  with 
great  violence  on  a  green  bank  by  the  road-side.  The  officer, 
Major  Sandford,  of  the  British  army,  whose  sudden  appearance 
had  frightened  the  horse,  immediately  pursued,  and  coming  up, 
found  Helen  perfectly  insensible.  Running  down  to  the  Brandy- 
wine,  he  obtained  some  water  in  a  leathern  cup,  such  as  hunts- 
men in  England  carry  with  them;  and  washing  the  blood  from 
her  brow,  which  was  slightly  cut,  he  bathed  her  face  until  he  saw 
signs  of  returning  life.  In  a  short  time  consciousness  was  re- 
stored, and  imagine  her  feelings,  when  opening  her  eyes,  she  be- 
held kneeling  at  her  side  the  handsomest  man  upon  whom  her 
eyes  had  ever  gazed.  When  their  eyes  met,  a  crimson  blush 
suffused  her  cheek,  and  she  started  up  with  apparent  fright;  but 
he  gently  took  her  hand,  and  detaining  her,  said — "  Be  not  alarmed, 
gentle  lady,  you  have  nothing  to  fear  from  a  British  officer.  So 
far  from  being  your  enemy,  I  will  protect  you  with  my  life,  and  I 
beg  the  favor  to  accompany  you  home." 

The  tones  of  his  voice  fell  musically  on  the  ears  of  Helen,  and 
called  up  confused  recollections  from  the  depths  of  memory. 

"Have  I  not  seen  you  in  New  York?"  she  enquired,  as  she 
arose  and  walked  onward.  "I  think  it  was  last  spring  at  a  ball." 

"Ah!  yes,"  returned  the  Major,  "and  many  an  hour  did  I  re- 
gret your  departure.  It  gives  me  exquisite  pleasure  to  meet  you 
again." 

They  had  indeed  met  in  New  York,  and  a  mutual  flame  of  re- 
gard had  been  kindled  on  the  altar  of  each  of  their  hearts.  Major 
Sandford  was  a  gay,  dashing  fellow,  whose  personal  beauty  was 
his  whole  stock  in  trade,  for  he  was  not  remarkable  for  intellectual 
wealth,  though  he  possessed  the  cacoethes  loquendi;  could  skim 
the  surface  of  matters,  and  by  toubhing  upon  a  hundred  subjects 
in  an  hour,  lead  the  less  informed  to  suppose  that  he  was  a  genius 
of  the  first  water.  It  was  singular  that  Helen,  possessing  such 
extraordinary  mental  endowments,  should  conceive  a  regard  for  a 
man  of  inferior  mind;  for  women  almost  universally  appreciate 
men  for  their  sterling  qualities,  while,  on  the  contrary,  men,  how- 
ever refined,  admire  the  other  sex  almost  entirely  for  personal 
beauty.  Women,  however  illiterate,  have  a  much  higher  estimate 
of  literature  and  intellectual  endowments  in  men,  than  men  have 
in  women;  hence  we  very  often  see  an  illiterate  beautiful  woman 
wedded  to  a  man  of  talents  and  learning;  but  very  seldom  do  we 
find  an  illiterate  man  urtited  to  a  woman  of  great  mind. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  413 

Talking  of  New  York  and  its  gayeties,  Helen  and  the  Major 
approached  the  shady  avenue  that  led  up  to  the  mansion.  Here 
they  met  Colonel  Mac  Trever,  who  surveyed  the  British  officer 
with  feelings  of  disgust,  suspicion  and  repugnance.  Helen,  how- 
ever, without  noticing  her  father's  countenance,  gracefully  intro- 
duced the  Major,  and  invited  him  to  enter  the  parlor.  Here  they 
were  some  hours  alone  together,  for  Col.  Mac  Trever,  whose  pre- 
judices were  very  strong,  would  not  enter;  and  that  regard  which 
had  been  kindled  in  New  York,  was  fanned  into  a  flame,  for  Helen 
was  a  creature  of  impulse.  When  the  Major  retired,  the  Colonel 
made  his  appearance,  with  a  dark  scowl  upon  his  face.  Helen 
began  to  relate  the  adventures  of  the  day,  but  the  angry  father, 
without  deigning  to  listen,  cut  her  narrative  short. 

"  Can  it  be  possible,"  he  exclaimed,  directing  on  his  astonished 
daughter  a  withering  look,  "that  Helen  Mac  Trever  will  stoop  to 
the  society  of  an  enemy  of  her  country?  Can  you  countenance  a 
foe  to  freedom,  who  this  very  day  may  imbrue  his  hands  in  the 
blood  of  your  brave  brother,  who  is  now  battling  for  liberty  in  the 
ranks  of  the  great  and  good  George  Washington?  For  shame! 
Let  me  never  again  see  you  bestow  a  smile  upon  an  enemy,  who 
would  not  hesitate  to  make  midnight  glitter  with  your  burning 
home." 

"But,  father — " 

"No  buts,  if  you  please,"  interrupted  the  agitated  Colonel, 
rising  from  his  seat  and  pacing  the  room.  "That  red-coat  shall 
never  again  darken  my  door,  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

"  Let  me  inform  you,  sir,  without  intending  any  disrespect,"  re- 
turned Helen,  raising  herself  to  her  full  height,  and  assuming  an 
air  of  dignified  importance,  "that  the  cause  of  American  freedom 
is  as  dear  to  my  heart  as  to  yours,  or  to  that  of  any  other  patriot, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  I  hope  I  shall  never  forget  that  respect 
which  is  due  to  a  flag  of  truce,  and  to  the  politeness  of  a  well- 
bred  gentleman,  be  that  gentleman  a  friend  or  foe  to  my  country. 
Though  nationally  at  enmity,  it  is  no  reason  that  we  should  be  in- 
dividually so." 

"Very  pretty  logic,  'pon  my  word!"  retorted  the  exasperated  fa- 
ther, who  in  his  enmities  was  unrelentingly  severe.  "Well,  well; 
if  you  prefer  the  society  of  your  country's  bitter  enemy,  encourage 
him ;  and  when  his  hands  are  reeking  with  the  gore  of  your 
slaughtered  brother  and  countrymen,  marry  him,  and  go  to  Eng- 
land and  starve.  You  cannot  remain  with  me,  or  expect  a  penny 
from  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Mac  Trever." 


414  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

This  was  severer  language  than  Helen  had  ever  received  from 
her  father,  and  she  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  tears. 

"Dearest  father,"  she  at  length  said,  "he  is  nothing  to  me  more 
than  a  friend ;  and  as  he  has  always  acted  the  part  of  a  gentleman, 
I  cannot  but  respect  him  as  such." 

"I  see,"  retorted  the  Colonel,  "how  strong  your  friendship  is; 
and  it  is  with  you,  as  I  have  found  it  to  be  the  case  with  every 
woman  I  ever  knew,  when  she  once  fixes  her  mind  upon  a  man, 
and  she  generally  chooses  the  man  that  all  the  world  beside  would 
have  rejected,  not  all  the  angels  in  heaven  can  persuade  her  to  re- 
linquish him.  But  be  it  so; — you  can  repent  at  your  leisure." 

"But,  my  dear  father,  what  if  we  could  win  him  over  to  the 
cause  of  American  freedom?  That  would  be  a  glorious  achieve- 
ment!" 

"Ay,  if  you  could  do  that,"  returned  the  father,  his  countenance 
relaxing  and  his  eye  brightening,  "it  would  indeed  be  glorious, 
and  willingly  would  I  give  him  your  hand;  but  these  red-coats  are 
true  to  old  George,  their  master,  and  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them." 

Here  the  conversation  was  interrupted,  and  Helen  left  the  room. 
She  was  in  a  quandary  how  to  dispose  of  her  lover,  for  she  had 
conceived  for  him  feelings  warmer  than  friendship,  and  knowing 
her  father's  violent  temper  and  prejudice,  she  feared  that  if  Major 
Sandford  should  visit  the  house,  some  evil  consequence  might  fol- 
low. She,  therefore,  met  him  by  stealth  by  moonlight,  in  the 
Scotch  mode  of  courtship.  In  an  alcove  in  the  garden,  which 
was  cultivated  by  Helen's  own  fair  hands,  they  met;  but  it  was  not 
long  before  the  prying  eye  of  the  father  suspected  the  arrange- 
ment, and  gave  orders  that  if  any  man  came  on  the  premises,  near 
the  building  at  dead  of  night,  to  fire  upon  him.  According  to  or- 
der, old  Mike,  the  overseer,  loaded  his  gun,  and  without  commu- 
nicating anything  to  Helen,  prepared  to  take  his  stand  in  a  sum- 
mer-house, covered  with  vines,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  garden, 
and  very  near  the  alcove  where  Helen  and  Sandford  met.  The 
hiding  place  Mike  had  chosen,  was  so  completely  covered  with 
vines,  that  a  person  secreted  in  it  could  see  everything  in  the  ave- 
nue leading  to  the  building,  and  yet  be  invisible  to  any  one  ap- 
proaching. There  he  sat,  with  his  well  loaded  musket,  until  the 
"witching  time  of  night,"  when  ghosts  are  said  to  walk. 

Helen,  unconscious  of  any  danger,  put  on  her  brother's  cloak 
and  hat,  and  stealing  down  stairs,  softly  unbarred  the  door,  and 
stole  cautiously  along  the  avenue.  She  had  approached  within 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  415 

ten  steps  of  the  summer-house,  ere  the  sound  of  her  footstep  fell 
on  Mike's  ear,  and  roused  him  from  his  dreamy  state.  Instanter 
he  raised  the  deadly  musket  to  his  shoulder. 

"Aha!"  he  mentally  exclaimed,  "the  red-coat  comes  in  dis- 
guise, but  I'll  reveal  who  he  is." 

At  this  eventful  moment,  big  with  fate,  he  had  taken  deliberate 
aim  at  Helen's  heart,  and  would  have  given  her  to  the  grave,  but 
she  spoke;  and  her  silvery  accents  were  so  familiar  to  his  ear  that 
he  recognized  her. 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  Helen,  "he  comes! — I  see  his  graceful  form 
amid  the  tall  trees  of  the  park!" 

The  next  minute  Major  Sandford  appeared  in  the  alcove,  and 
would  have  clasped  Helen  in  his  arms,  but  she  waved  him  back 
and  said,  with  a  dignified  air — "Nay,  nay,  Major,  we  meet  not 
here  for  a  love  dalliance  to-night,  but  on  business  dear  to  my 
heart,  and  to  my  country." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  Mike  could  catch  but  a  word  oc- 
casionally. He  resolved,  however,  not  to  fire,  but  to  listen,  as  he 
might,  perhaps,  detect  a  treasonable  plot. 

"  What  are  the  terms  you  speak  of?"  said  the  Major. 

"I  can  never  consent  to  your  proposition,"  returned  Helen, 
"until  you  forsake  the  unjust  cause  you  have  espoused,  and  join 
the  glorious  little  band  now  struggling  for  freedom.  In  other 
words,  I  will  never  consent  to  give  you  my  hand,  until  you  swear 
to  betray  General — " 

"Treason,  by  the  dads!"  exclaimed  old  Mike,  forgetting  himself, 
who  had  only  been  able  to  hear  part  of  the  conversation. 

"Hark!"  cried  the  Major,  starting,  "did  you  not  hear  a  voice?" 

"No,  it  was  but  the  wind  sighing  in  the  trees." 

"Could  you  love  a  traitor?"  enquired  the  Major  scrutinizingly. 

"Ay,"  returned  Helen,  "when  the  traitor  betrays  a  tyrant,  and 
succors  the  oppressed.  Indeed  he  is  no  traitor,  who  betrays  the 
vicious  desires  of  a  despot;  and  who,  in  espousing  the  cause  of 
the  injured,  avenges  their  wrongs.  No,  Major  Sandford,  he  can 
never  merit  the  appellation  of  a  traitor,  who  flies  from  vice  to 
virtue — who  forsakes  a  cause  that  is  positively  wrong." 

"You  are  well  skilled  in  moral  philosophy,  I  see,"  said  the 
Major,  "but  shall  I  turn  against  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  the 
home  of  my  fathers?" 

"Are  we  not  all  of  the  same  country?  returned  Helen.  "And 
were  one  part  of  your  household  to  oppress  the  other,  would  you 
not  espouse  the  cause  of  the  oppressed." 


416  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"I  certainly  would,"  replied  the  Major,  "but  the  oath  of  alle- 
giance!— ay,  the  oath  I  have  taken  to — " 

"An  unrighteous  oath,"  interrupted  Helen,  "is  not  binding. 
No,  sir,  an  oath  extorted  by  a  tyrant  to  oppress  the  weak  and  en- 
slave your  fellow-man,  is  not  binding — I  say  it  is  not  binding  in 
the  sight  of  Heaven.  God  will  never  sanction  an  oath  unholy  in 
its  object  and  in  its  end." 

Old  Mike  had  now  fallen  asleep,  and  Major  Sandford  was  on 
the  horns  of  a  dilemna.  At  first  he  started  with  horror  at  the  pro- 
position of  Helen,  but  the  more  he  entertained  the  idea,  and 
the  more  he  listened  to  the  philosophic  reasoning  of  the  fair  pa- 
triot, the  less  hideous  it  appeared.  And  thus  it  ever  is.  The 
mind  familiarizes  itself  with  even  the  idea  of  the  commission  of 
the  worst  of  crimes.  Though  it  may  shudder  at  first,  if  it  suffer 
itself  to  entertain  that  idea,  it  is  lost.  The  more  Major  Sandford 
thought  of  renouncing  his  allegiance,  the  less  horrible  it  seemed ; 
and  he  found  his  mind  wavering. 

"It  is  far  nobler,"  continued  Helen  Mac  Trever,  perceiving  the 
infltience  of  her  eloquence,  "and  y  less  heinous  in  the  sight  of 
God  to  break  an  unrighteous  oath  to  a  tyrant,  than  to  fulfil  that 
oath  by  crushing  the  oppressed,  and  carrying  death  and  devasta- 
tion to  the  homes  of  helpless  wives'and  children.  Your  heart, 
Major,  was  never  designed  by  Heaven  .to  glut  its  vengeance  on 
those  who  are  struggling  only  for  their  rights,  and  have  done  no 
wrong." 

"Almost,"  ejaculated  the  Major,  "  thou  persuadest  me  to  be  a 
patriot;  a  rebel.  But  if  I  break  my  oath  of  allegiance,  how  could 
you  place  confidence  in  my  oath  to  liberty?" 

"I  could  place  confidence  in  you,"  quickly  returned  Helen, 
"because  you  would  act  honestly  to  your  conscience,  and  justly 
to  the  oppressed,  by  breaking  an  unholy  oath  to  a  tyrant.  He  who 
acts  justly  and  honestly,  can  never  betray." 

The  eye  of  Sandford  glittered  at  the  thought  of  obtaining  the 
hand,  and  with  it  the  fortune  of  Helen.  He  was  one  of  those  men, 
whose  judgment,  weak  and  vacillating,  may  be  swayed  by  the  sug- 
gestions of  even  inferior  minds;  and  before  the  powerful  appeals 
of  Helen,  his  objections  were  scattered  like  the  mists  of  the  morn- 
ing before  the  luminary  of  day. 

"  In  what  then  can  I  serve  you  ?"  enquired  the  Major,  pressing 
her  hand  between  both  of  his,  and  gazing  anxiously  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  can  serve  me,  or  rather  my  country,  and  the  sacred  cause 
of  humanity,  justice  and  the  rights  of  man,"  returned  Helen,  while 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  417 

her  heart  beat  with  unusual  enthusiasm,  "  by  assisting  a  handful 
of  men  to  recover  their  birth-right." 

"  But  in  what  manner  ?" 

"  By  betraying  General  Howe,  the  jackall  of  the  lion,  George 
III,  into  the  hands  of  the  brave  Washington,  or  those  of  any  of  his 
Generals.  This  will  be  the  first  step.  You  have  solicited  my 
hand  in  marriage,  but  never  until — " 

"But  should  I  fail,"  interrupted  Sandford,  "death,  ignominious 
death  would  be  my  portion." 

"Should  you  triumph  in  the  attempt,"  said  Helen  solemnly, 
"  my  hand  and  heart,  and  all  that  I  possess  of  this  world,  shall 
joyously  be  given  to  you ;  but  should  you  fail,  and  your  life  be  the 
forfeit,  then  I  swear  to  die  with  you." 

"Then,  by  heavens!"  exclaimed  Sandford,  "for  such  a  prize  it 
shall  be  done,  or  I  will  perish  in  the  attempt." 

Helen  seized  his  hand  with  enthusiasm,  and  bade  him  good  night, 
as  she  turned  to  retrace  her  steps  to  the  mansion. 

"  Nay,"  returned  the  Majon  "let  us  ramble  over  these  roman- 
tic hills,  and  fix  upon  the  pla£  yon  have  suggested." 

Helen  agreed  to  his  proposal  and  wandered  with  him  through 
the  lonely  woodland ;  but  she  returned  to  her  room  long  before 
the  god  of  day  made  his  appearance.  Old  Mike  snored  in  the 
summer-house  until  the  morning  dawned,  when  he  roused  up, 
scratched  his  head,  and  flew  to  the  mansion  to  unburthen  himself. 

"Aha!"  he  exclaimed  mentally,  "I  always  thought  that  girl 
had  a  sneaking  notion  to  the  tory  side ;  and  now,  though  I  didn't 
hear  all,  I'm  satisfied." 

Scarcely  had  Colonel  Mac  Trever  dressed  himself  and  buckled 
his  shoes,  ere  Mike  made  his  appearance,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
and  a  grinning  smile  on  his  ugly  face,  that  had  not  been  washed 
in  a  week. 

"  Well,  Mike,  what  luck  with  the  red-coat?" 

"  Your  honor  may  well  ask  that,  you  may.  While  I  was  sitten 
and  sitten  and  sitten  last  night,  watching  for  a  red-coat,  who 
should  come  along  with  a  cloak  and  hat  on  but  a  man,  and  he 
wasn't  a  man  neither." 

"  Well  what,  in  the  name  of  Banquo's  ghost,  was  it?"  enquired 
the-Colonel,  laughing  at  the  simplicity  of  Mike. 

"  Why,  your  honor,  jest  as  I  was  aguine  to  shoot,  I  diskivered 
it  was  Miss  Helen  that  I  tuck  to  be  a  man.  So  I  didn't  shoot, 
but  sot  and  sot  and  sot,  and  listened  to  her  and  some  feller  layin 

S3 


418  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

a  plot  to  betray  Gineral  Washington,  and  to  upset  freedom  and 
every  thing." 

"That  scoundrel  has  bewitched  my  daughter,"  exclaimed  the 
enraged  Colonel,  "  and  he  shall  be  arrested." 

"  Aha !  your  honor,  that's  right ;  he's  nothin  no  how  but  a  fortin 
hunter,  that  wants  to  turn  matrimony  into  a  matter-of-money. 
They'll  betray  our  Gineral  this  night." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  let  not  another  word  fall  from  your 
lips  on  the  subject,  and  the  villain  shall  be  caught  in  his  own  trap, 
and  swing  on  the  first  tree." 

"Not  another  word,  your  honor;  no,  no,  no,  not  another 
word;"  and  Mike  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  late  when  Helen  came  down  to  the  breakfast  table,  and 
her  heart  was  full  of  th£  romantic  adventure  which  she  and  Sand- 
ford  had  been  planning.  But  she  said  not  a  word,  for  she  wished 
to  surprise  her  father  by  the  consummation  of  the  stratagem.  She 
knew  that  if  successful,  it  would  at  once  win  his  heart  in  favor  of 
her  lover;  and  knowing  how  suspicious  he  was,  she  would  not 
mention  to  him  the  incipient  plan.  Colonel  Mac  Trever  was  also 
silent,  in  regard  to  what  old  Mike  had  told  him ;  because  he  very 
well  knew  that  to  speak  of  it  would  defeat  his  intention,  by  giving 
the  alarm.  Still  he  could  not  entirely  conceal  his  emotions,  nor 
could  he  treat  Helen  with  his  usual  civility  and  affection ;  for  he 
considered  her  a  confirmed  tory,  manufactured  by  the  hands  of 
Sandford. 

Night  came,  and  the  plan  was  to  be  put  in  operation.  A  note 
had  been  addressed  to  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  American 
army,  to  appoint  two  or  three  officers  who  should  meet  the  writer 
at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night  at  a  certain  spot,  and  that  then  and 
there  General  Howe,  commander  of  the  British  army,  would  be 
betrayed  into  their  power.  A  note  was  also  addressed  to  .General 
Howe,  stating  that  if  he  would  make  his  appearance  at  the  same 
time  and  place,  that  General  Washington  would  be  betrayed  into 
his  hands.  Unluckily,  the  manuscript  of  the  latter  note  had  been 
dropped  in  the  alcove,  and  found  by  Col.  Mac  Trever.  This  con- 
firmed what  he  had  been  told  by  Mike,  that  General  Washington 
was  to  be  betrayed ;  for  he  did  not  comprehend  the  intention  of 
the  note  to  General  Howe. 

The  place  of  meeting  was  a  lonely  one,  not  very  far  distant  from 
the  old  Quaker  meeting-house.  General  Washington,  suspecting 
some  treachery,  sent  two  men  in  disguise,  whom  Sandford  sup- 
posed to  be  the  Marquis  de  la  Fayette,  and  the  Count  Pulaski. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  411* 

It  was  a  singular  circumstance,  that  the  person  of  Colonel  Mac 
Trever  so  much  resembled  that  of  General  Howe,  that  in  the  dark 
he  might  easily  be  mistaken  for  that  person.  The  Colonel  dressed 
himself  in  the  military  dress  he  had  worn  in  the  French  war,  and 
followed  by  Mike  and  two  or  three  stout  men,  started  for  the 
place  of  meeting.  His  attendants  were  secreted  within  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  while  he  approached  the  spot.  His  face  was  muffled, 
so  that  Sandford  could  not  scan  his  features  by  the  dim  light;  but 
so  confident  was  he  that  it  was  Gen.  Howe  who  approached,  that 
he  advanced,  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  said,  "General, 
you  are  my  prisoner." 

"No,  by  heavens?"  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  "General  Wash- 
ington is  not  your  prisoner;  but,  sir,  I  know  you  are  mine" 

And  he  gave  a  shrill  whistle,  which  ech^d  through  the  sombre 
solitudes  around ;  and  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  Major  Sand- 
ford,  several  stalwart  men  rushed  forth  from  the  thicket.  So  un- 
expected was  this,  that  the  Major  was  paralyzed. 

"Seize  the  villainous  traitor,"  cried  Colonel  Mac  Trever,  and 
in  an  instant  half  a  dozen  Herculean  hands  held  him  as  firmly  as 
the  jaws  of  a  vice. 

"What  means  this?"  enquired  Donald  Mac  Trever,  for  he  was 
one  of  the  men  whom  Washington  had  sent. 

"  Let  me  explain  this  matter,"  said  the  Major,  recognizing  the 
Colonel,  "  and  you,  sir,  will  not  call  me  a  traitor  or  a  villain." 

"  Away  with  him,  men;  I  have  an  explanation  of  the  whole 
affair,  in  his  own  hand-writing,  in  my  pocket — I'll  hear  no  more." 

Major  Sandford  found  himself  in  an  awkward  dilemma,  for  he 
was  on  both  horns ;  having  committed  himself  on  both  sides. 
The  note  to  General  Howe,  which  the  Colonel  had  found,  was 
shown  to  Donald  and  his  companion,  who  became  enraged,  and 
were  ready  to  take  instant  vengeance.  Sandford  was,  however, 
pinioned,  and  conveyed  to  a  dungeon  beneath  the  mansion  of 
Colonel  Mac  Trever,  which  in  other  days  had  served  for  a  wine 
cellar.  In  this  gloomy  abode,  he  sat  down  upon  a  fragment  of 
granite,  and  began  to  reflect  upon  his  situation.  If  he  ac- 
knowledged his  intention  to  betray  Washington,  he  would  incur 
the  vengeance  of  the  American  army,  and  vice  versa. 

"Oh!  woman,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  at  the  bottom  of  every 
thing.  How  many  wars  have  you  not  incited  ?  How  many  em- 
pires have  flourished  but  to  fall,  by  your  intrigues  ?  The  proud 
palaces  of  Priam,  and  the  lofty  towers  of  Troy,  by  your  charms 
were  laid  level  with  the  dust !  Yea !  by  your  fascinating  influence, 


420  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORU    BARD. 

in  the  garden  of  Eden,  mankind  fell !  But  you  have  atoned — you 
have  redeemed  your  character.  By  you  was  brought  into  the 
world  that  glorious  character,  who  hung  the  rainbow  of  redemp- 
tion round  a  dying  world.  By  you,  Christopher  Columbus  was 
enabled  to  discover  a  new  continent.  By  you,  Rome  was  saved  ; 
and  by  you,  I  shall  yet  be  liberated  from  my  perilous  situation." 

But  where,  in  the  mean  time,  was  the  heroic  Helen?  She  had 
been  listening  to  the  stormy  wrath  of  her  enraged  father,  and  had 
retired  to  her  room,  to  meditate  on  the  means  of  liberating  Sand- 
ford;  or,  in  the  event  of  failure,  to  perish  with  him.  But  how 
was  she  to  effect  his  liberation  1  Every  door  leading  to  his  sub- 
terraneous abode  was  locked,  barred  and  bolted,  and  eagle  eyes 
were  vigilant  in  watching.  The  only  internal  avenue  was  through 
a  trap-door  in  the  kitchen,  and  that  had  been  locked  by  Colonel 
Mac  Trever,  and  the  key  secrete^ 

Sandford  dreaded  every  hour  that  a  court-martial  would  sit  on 
his  case,  and  condemn  him  to  be  hung  or  shot  immediately,  for 
every  soldier  dreads  an  ignominious  death  a  thousand  times  more 
than  to  fall  in  battle.  He  knew  that  to  asseverate  his  innocence, 
in  regard  to  the  betrayal  of  Washington,  would  be  useless,  so  long 
as  Colonel  Mac  Trever  had  the  written  note  to  General  Howe  in 
his  possession,  and  if  he  could  explain  the  matter  to  the  satisfac- 
tion of  the  Americans,  he  would  then  become  an  object  of  ven- 
geance in  the  eyes  of  the  British.  He,  therefore,  silently  awaited 
the  fiat  of  fate. 

But  he  was  safe  for  the  present.  The  American  army  was  busy 
in  making  preparation  for  a  general  engagement  the  next  day,  the 
long  remembered  eleventh  of  September.  General  Washington, 
with  the  forethought  and  discretion  which  distinguished  him,  was 
arranging  every  thing  to  the  best  advantage  that  regarded  his  posi- 
tion, and  left  nothing  undone  that  he  thought  would  have  a  ten- 
dency to  secure  victory  to  the  American  arms.  Many  a  heart 
beat  high  that  day,  that  on  the  next,  ere  the  golden  sun  should 
sink  behind  the  western  hills,  should  pour  out  its  reeking  gore  on 
the  battle-field. 

Helen  was  resolved  to  free  Sandford  from  his  perilous  situation 
at  all  hazards,  and  in  the  absence  of  her  father  she  ransacked  the 
whole  building  in  search  of  the  key,  which  unlocked  the  door  of 
the  cellar  in  the  kitchen.  After  a  long  search  she  discovered  a 
bunch  of  old  keys,  and  great  was  her  joy  in  the  confident  belief 
that  one  of  them  would  unlock  the  door.  But  she  dared  not  try 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  421 

the  experiment  until  night  should  favor  her,  and  sleep  bury  the 
senses  of  her  watchful  father  in  forgetfulness. 

Helen  saw  with  pleasure  the  sun  go  down,  and  the  shadows  of 
evening  steal  Softly  among  the  flowery  groves  and  grottoes  of  her 
garden.  She  retired  to  her  room  and  anxiously  awaited  the  hour 
of  midnight.  Scarcely  had  the  old  Dutch  clock  tolled  the  hour  of 
twelve,  ere  she  stole  softly  down  the  stairway,  and  with  trembling 
limbs  approached  the  door  of  the  cellar.  Key  after  key  she  tried 
without  effect,  until  they  had  all  been  tried  but  one.  With  a  pal- 
pitating heart  she  applied  it  to  the  lock  and  found  it  would  not 
answer.  Hope  fled  from  her,  and  she  sunk  overpowered  by  her 
feelings,  on  the  floor.  She  had  sworn  to  die  with  Sandford,  in  the 
event  of  his  detection  by  the  British,  and  she  now  saw  no  other 
alternative  but  to  die.  But  at  this  critical  moment,  the  recollec- 
tion flashed  upon  her  mind,  that|tie  had  seei*  a  key  hanging  in  the 
room  where  her  father  slept.  But  could  she  venture  there  lo  obtain 
it?  And  if  she  should  be  so  fortunate  as  not  to  awake  her  slum- 
bering sire,  it  might  not  be  the  right  key!  Great  was  the  distress 
of  her  mind,  but  she  nevertheless  resolved  to  hazard  the  attempt, 
and  accordingly  crept  softly  to  the  door,  and  gently  opened  it. 
She  listened  to  ascertain  whether  her  father  slept,  and  discovered 
by  the  sound  of  his  breathing  that  he  did.  Upon  her  knees,  she 
then  crawled,  with  a  palpitating  heart,  across  the  room,  to  the  wall 
where  the  key  hung,  but  in  clambering  on  a  chair  to  reach  it,  she 
fell.  Startled  by  the  noise,  the  Colonel  awoke  and  roused  up. 
The  frightened  Helen,  stretched  upon  the  floor,  did  not  move; 
and  after  rubbing  his  eyes,  he  fell  back  and  was  again  soon  lost  in  ' 
slumber.  At  the  second  attempt  she  obtained  the  key,  and  crept 
softly  out  of  the  room.  To  her  inexpressible  joy  it  unlocked  the 
door,  and  she  descended  the  stairway.  All  was  silent  as  the  city 
of  the  dead.  Sandford,  wearied  by  the  intensity  of  his  thoughts, 
had  sunk  into  deep  sleep, 

"Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer;" 

and  lost  to  a  consciousness  of  his  situation,  was  indulging  in  de- 
licious dreams  of  happy  by-gone  days.  Startled  by  the  voice  of 
Helen,  he  suddenly  awoke  with  the  idea  that  he  had  been  doomed 
to  die,  and  that  a  summons  had  come  to  convey  him  to  the  place 
of  execution.  But  great  was  his  joy  when  he  beheld  his  deliverer, 
in  the  person  of  her  who  had  become  the  charm  of  his  existence 
and  the  angel  of  his  heart. 


*  ^ 

WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Why, .Helen,  have  you  ventured  here?"  he  enquired  in  a 
melancholy  tone.  "  You  will  incur  your  father's  vengeance  if 
disco  vered." 

"Fear  not  for  me,"  replied  the  heroic  girl;  "woman  will  dare 
anything  for  the  man  she  loves — yea!  when  all  the  world  forsakes, 
she  will  follow  him  to  the  dungeon,  and  though  covered  with 
crime,  will  clasp  the  victim  in  his  chains.  But  there  is  no  time  to 
be  lost  in  the  waste  of  words.  You  must  fly  this  instant.  I  have 
come  to  save  you.  or  perish  in  the  attempt." 

"But,"  returned  Sandford,  "by  what  means  can  I  escape? 
There  are  watchful  eyes  about  the  building,  and  to  elude  their  vig- 
ilance is  impossible.  I  saw  a  man  but  a  minute  ago  pass  the 
grated  window,  and  he  would  recognize  and  stop  me." 

Helen  was  fpr  a  moment  lost  in  thought.  She  then  bade  Sand- 
ford  be  of  good  cheer,  and  flew  up  the  stairway  with  the  agility  of 
a  gazelle.  In  a  short  time  she  returned  with  one  of  her  own 
dresses,  a  long  cloak  and  bonnet. 

"Haste,  haste,"  she  cried,  "put  on  this  dress  over  your  own, 
and  you  may  pass  out  and  be  mistaken  for  me.  Nay,  not  another 
word;  I  will  meet  you  to-morrow  night  at  the  old  Quaker  meet- 
ing-house— away,  quick!  quick!" 

Major  Sandford  hastily  put  on  the  dress;  followed  Helen  up  the 
long,  narrow  flight  of  stairs,  and  emerged  alone  from  the  building, 
after  having  imprinted  a  kiss  on  the  fair  hand  of  Helen,  and  bade 
her  adieu.  As  he  passed  out  of  the  yard  into  the  shady  avenue 
which  led  to  the  outer  gate,  he  was  just  beginning  to  congratulate 
himself  on  his  security,  when  suddenly  the  form  of  a  man  started 
out  from  the  umbrageons  shrubbery  on  the  side  of  the  avenue. 
He  was  one  of  the  guards  employed  by  Colonel  Mac  Trever,  who 
had  never  seen  Helen  but  once,  and  did  not  remember  her  coun- 
tenance. Advancing,  he  hailed  Major  Sandford,  and  approaching 
closely,  looked  into  his  face.  His  great  beauty,  smooth  face,  and 
the  effect  of  a  bonnet,  led  the  guard  to  believe  that  Helen  Mac 
Trever  stood  before  him,  and^  he  merely  muttered  in  a  guttural 
tone — "You  can  pass,  madam." 

Sandford's  heart  beat  at  that  moment  with  increased  rapidity, 
for  he  stood  ready,  if  discovered  and  the  alarm  were  given,  to 
draw  a  pistol,  which  he  had  concealed,  shoot  down  the  guard,  and 
fly  for  his  life.  Fortunately  nothing  of  the  kind  occurred;  and  in 
a  short  time  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of  pursuit,  and  lost  in  the 
dim  shadows  of  the  forest. 


Jl 

WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARU.  423 

The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  in  all  his  brilliant  glory,  shed- 
ing  his  rays  over  the  peaceful  hills  and  valleys,  where  the  cattle 
were  grazing,  and  gilding  the  lofty  tops  of  the  woodlands  with  his 
golden  light,  which  was  destined  in  the  evening  to  fall  upon  a 
field  of  blood  and  carnage.  All  was  now  activity  in 'the  camp  of 
Washington,  and  many  a  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and  chivalrous 
feeling,  that  ere  another  sun  should  rise  would  be  still  in  death. 
A  deep  solemnity  pervaded  every  countenance,  when  the  news 
came  and  the  tidings  spread  from  rank  to  rank,  that  the  British 
army  was  approaching,  though  every  man  stood  firm,  and  every 
arm  was  nerved  for  the  contest.  But  the  contradictory  accounts 
of  the  movements  of  the  British  army  which  came  in,  embarrassed 
General  Washington;  and  for  a  time  he  knew  not  what  course  to 
pursue,  until  it  was  ascertained  that  a  division  of  the  enemy's 
army,  commanded  by  General  Knyphausen,  had  made  its  appear- 
ance at  Chadd's  Ford,  with  the  pretence  of  crossing  the  Brandy- 
wine.  The  left  wing  of  the  American  army  was  posted  near  that 
spot,  and  like  a  whirlwind  the  brave  sons  of  freedom  rushed  down 
from  the  hill.  The  arrows  of  death  flew  thick  and  fast;  the  thunder 
of  battle  reverberated  along  the  romantic  hills  of  the  Brandywine, 
and  dense  clouds  of  smoke  enveloped  the  combatants  and  rolled 
up  into  the  heavens.  There  was  heard  the  clash  of  arms,  and  the 
death  shriek  of  the  falling  heroes. 

At  two  o'clock,  a  single  horseman  came  on  the  wings  of  the 
wind,  to  inform  General  Washington  that  the  main  body  of  the 
British  army  had  crossed  the  Brandywine  higher  up,  and  was 
about  to  attack  the  right  flank  of  his  tight  wing,  which  he  ordered 
to  change  its  position.  It  had  no  sooner  done  so.  than  it  was  at- 
tacked with  tremendous  fury.  For  a  time  the  carnage  was 
dreadful,  and  every  inch  of  ground  was  disputed  ;  till  at  length, 
on  account  of  the  superior  numbers  of  the  British,  the  Americans 
had  to  give  way,  and  retreat  upon  the  centre,  which  was  then 
coming  up  to  support  the  right  wing.  Here  the  contest  was  des- 
perate, but  the  centre  also  gave  way,  and  retreated  down  to 
Chadd's  Ford,  where  Knyphausen  had  just  crossed  over  and  at- 
tacked the  left  wing.  Sandford  had  been  an  actor  in  the  whole 
battle,  and  fought  with  the  desperation  of  a  tiger  in  the  American 
cause. 

The  battle  raged  with  increased  fury,  and  many  fought  hand  to 
hand.  Sandford  was  dealing  death  around  him.  Suddenly  he 
saw  a  powerful  Hessian  cleave  an  American  to  the  earth;  he  saw 
him  in  the  act  of  running  a  bayonet  through  him,  when  he  sud- 


424  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

denly  wheeled,  drew  a  pistol  from  his  belt  and  fired.  The  ball  en- 
tered an  eye  of  the  Hessian,  and  he  fell  dead  on  the  spot.  In  an- 
other moment  Sandford  was  hurried  away  to  another  station,  and 
did  not  discover  who  it  was  whom  he  had  rescued  from  death. 
Onward  still  rolled  the  dreadful  tide  of  war,  and  for  a  time  the  re- 
sult seemed  doubtful;  but  at  length  the  whole  American  army, 
overcome  by  superior  numbers,  gave  way,  and  retreated  to 
Chester.  Though  great  valor  was  displayed  by  Washington's 
men,  particularly  by  a  brigade  of  Virginia  troops,  yet  owing  to  the 
fact  that  the  muskets  had  been  obtained  from  different  sources, 
and  were  of  different  si/es,  the  cartridges  not  being  fitted  to  them 
all,  may  be  attributed  the  defeat  of  the  American  army,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  disparity  of  numbers. 

From  the  balcony  of  Col.  Mac  Trever's  house  seated  on  a  high 
hill  which  overlooked  the  whole  country,  Helen  had  witnessed  the 
battle  at  Chadd's  Ford,  and  now  that  it  was  over,  she  flew  to  the 
dreadful  scene  to  learn  the  fate  of  her  brother,  for  she  was  not 
aware  that  Sandford  had  taken  part  in  the  battle.  What  a  sight 
was  there?  What  a  havoc  had  been  made  that  day?  Twelve 
hundred  American  hearts  had  ceased  to  beat,  and  about  half  that 
number  of  British  heroes  had  bitten  the  dust.  The  British  were 
conveying  their  wounded  to  the  Quaker  meeting-house,  of  which 
they  made  a  hospital,  and  Helen  recoiled  with  horror,  as  she  gazed 
on  the  dead  and  listened  to  the  groans  of  the  dying,  who  were 
promiscuously  heaped  together.  Here  all  animosity  had  subsided. 
Here  was  seen  an  American  soldier,  resting  his  dying  head  on  the 
bosom  of  a  Briton ;  and  thefe  was  a  fainting  Hessian,  supported 
by  an  American.  The  feelings,  which  had  actuated  their  hearts 
in  the  heat  of  battle,  had  subsided  in  their  helpless,  mangled  con- 
dition, and  feelings  of  mutual  dependence  had  taken  their  place. 
To  every  face  and  form,  from  which  the  spouting  gore  was  ebbing, 
Helen  directed  her  eye;  and  she  turned  to  leave  a  scene  which 
she  found  too  horrible  to  endure.  As  she  was  retreating  from  the 
field,  the  sound  of  her  own  name  faintly  fell  upon  her  ear.  She 
turned,  and  saw  a  man  reclining  against  a  tree  and  bleeding. 

"Good  heavens,"  she  exclaimed,  "it  is  Sandford." 

"Ay,"  returned  the  Major,  "and  unless  I  can  immediately  be 
concealed,  or  conveyed  from  this  spot,  I  am  lost — undone." 

As  he  spoke,  his  face  became  ghastly  pale;  he  relaxed  his  hold 
upon  the  tree,  and  fell  his  whole  length  on  the  green  sward — he 
had  fainted  from  loss  of  blood.  Helen  delayed  not  a  moment, 
but  fled  with  the  speed  of  a  reindeer.  In  a  short  time  she  returned 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  425 

with  her  own  noble  steed,  and  assisted  Sandford  to  mount;  bidding 
him  fly  to  Wilmington,  as  the  American  army  had  retreated  to 
Chester,  and  she  feared  he  would  be  arrested  under  the  mistake 
which  had  occurred  with  her  father. 

Colonel  Mac  Trever,  in  the  mean  time,  was  raving  in  anger  at 
the  escape  of  Major  Sandford,  and  as  he  had  discovered  in  regard 
to  the  key  that  Helen  had  been  concerned  in  the  matter,  he  de- 
nounced her  as  a  traitor  to  her  country,  and  would  not  deign  to 
listen  a  moment  to  her  elucidation  of  the  transaction. 

"Never,  never,"  he  exclaimed,  "shall  she  again  be  called  my 
daughter,  and  not  one  farthing  will  I  bestow  upon  or  bequeath  to 
her.  Ah !  here  they  come  with  my  wounded  son,  who  has  shed  his 
blood  in  the  sacred  cause  of  freedom,  and  far  sooner  would  I  see 
her  stretched  stark  and  stiff  in  death,  than  thus  to  behold  her  the 
accomplice  of  the  deadly  enemy  of  her  country." 

Helen,  finding  that  it  was  useless  to  reason  with  her  father,  and 
satisfied  that  her  brother  was  not  mortally  wounded,  privately  left 
her  home  in  which  she  had  spent  so  many  happy  days,  and  was 
in  Wilmington  the  next  day  after  Sandford  had  arrived.  Great 
was  his  joy  to  find  her  so  devoted.  That  night  he  led  her  to  the 
altar  of  the  old  Presbyterian  church  of  Wilmington,  where  they 
were  united  in  the  holy  bonds  of  wedlock.  But  the  excitement 
of  the  occasion,  added  to  the  irritation  caused  by  the  wound  he 
had  received,  brought  on  a  fever,  which  for  a  long  time  stretched 
him  on  his  bed.  They  had  both,  like  many  other  very  sensible 
people,  leaped  into  matrimony  without  due  consideration^without 
bestowing  one  thought  on  the  means  by  which  they  were  to  live. 
Helen  had  been  accustomed  to  plenty  all  her  life,  without  any 
exertion  on  her  part,  and  it  seemed  so  natural  to  have  every  thing  she 
expressed  a  desire  for,  that  it  never  entered  her  mind  that  matters 
could  be  otherwise.  But  a  change  was  destined  to  come  over 
the  spirit  of  her  dream.  The  constant  outgoing  without  any  in- 
come, soon  exhausted  the  funds  which  the  Major  had  been  enabled 
to  save,  and  Helen  awoke  to  the  reality  of  her  situation.  But  she 
was  not  as  one  without  hope.  She  could  not,  she  would  not 
believe  that  her  father  would  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  her  cries,  in  case 
of  necessity,  seeing  that  her  husband  was  unable  to  provide  for  her, 
on  account  of  his  wounds.  But  she  would  not  mortify  herself  by 
the  application  for  relief  until  necessity  compelled  her  to  do  so. 

"My  dear,"  said  Helen  one  day  as  she  sat  by  the  bedside,  "you 
need  some  medicines,  and  if  you  will  suffer  me  to  go  for  them, 
I  can  buy  them  to  better  advantage  than  the  servant." 
54 


426  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

"Alas!"  exclaimed  Sandford,  "I  have  but  one  dollar  in  the 
world  remaining,  and  we  shall  be  compelled  to  discharge  the 
servant  and  wait  upon  ourselves." 

At  these  ominous  words,  a  cold  chill  ran  through  Helen's  heart, 
and  casting  a  retrospective  glance,  at  the  period  when  she  never 
expressed  a  wish  that  was  not  gratified,  she  burst  into  tears:  but 
ashamed  of  her  weakness,  she  hastily  wiped  them  away. 

"Be  of  good  cheer,  my  husband,"  she  said,  "in  my  younger 
years  I  was  taught  all  manner  of  needle-work,  and  painting,  and 
by  the  exercise  of  my  hands  I  can  provide  for  our  necessity." 

A  tear  stood  in  the  eye  of  Sandford,  when  he  thought  of  the 
home  from  which  he  had  taken  her,  and  a  sigh  escaped  from  his 
bosom,  at  the  thought  that  he  had  brought  her  to  poverty  and  want. 
Yet  he  admired  her  spirit ;  for  there  is  no  bravery  like  that  which 
manfully  buffets  the  storm  of  adversity.  Many  a  man  has  braved 
death  at  the  cannon's  mouth,  who  has  sunk  overpowered  by  the 
privations  of  poverty  and  the  horrors  of  want. 

Helen  now  applied  herself  to  her  needle,  and  worked  day  and 
night  by  the  bed-side  of  her  sick  husband ;  but  with  all  her  exertions, 
she  could  scarcely  supply  the  cheapest  necessaries  of  life.  Finding 
her  exertions  futile,  it  was  resolved  that  they  should  remove  to  Phila- 
delphia; but,  alas!  where  were  they  to  obtain  the  necessary  funds? 
After  mature  deliberation,  Helen  resolved  that  she  would  dispose 
of  her  jewels;  but  the  very  thought  brought  tears  into  her  eyes,  for 
they  were  the  gift  of  her  sainted  mother.  Thrice  did  she  go  to 
the  jeweller,  and  as  often  did  she  return  without  disposing  of 
them.  When  sold,  they  brought  but  a  pittance,  very  little  more 
than  sufficient  to  defray  their  expenses  to  Philadelphia.  Luckily 
she  was  acquainted  with  a  very  generous  and  pious  woman,  of 
the  excellent  society  of  Friends,  whose  name  was  Shipley,  who 
had  often  shown  disinterested  acts  of  friendship  towards  her  and 
many  others,  and  who  now  pressed  upon  her  the  acceptance  of 
a  sum  of  money.  It  was  this  lady,  Elizabeth  Shipley,  who  in  her 
dying  moments  uttered  the  prophecy,  which  was  published  and 
generally  circulated  at  that  time,  when  the  British  had  been  vic- 
torious at  Brandywine;  were  in  possession  of  Philadelphia,  and 
the  American  people  were  desponding;  "that the  invader,  though 
then  successful,  should  be  driven  out,  and  the  cause  of  American 
freedom  should  be  triumphant." 

On  board  of  a  small  craft,  for  very  few  vessels  then  sailed  from 
the  port  of  Wilmington,  Helen  conveyed  her  wounded  husband; 
and  sad  were  her  thoughts  when  she  landed  on  the  wharf  at 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  427 

Philadelphia.  The  last  time  she  had  visited  that  city,  she  was 
happy,  and  in  possession  of  every  thing  that  her  heart  could  desire, 
without  any  fear  for  the  future;  but  now  she  had  fled  from  her 
father,  with  his  frown  resting  upon  her,  and  had  a  wounded  husband 
to  minister  to  and  support;  with  but  precarious  means  to  do  so, 
and  the  constant  fear  of  coming  to  abject  want.  Those  who  have 
struggled  with  adversity  from  the  earliest  period  of  life,  know  not 
the  pangs  of  poverty;  it  is  those  who  have  long  enjoyed  the  sweets 
of  plenty  and  have  suddenly  fallen  from  affluence,  who  feel  the 
stings  of  penury  and  want.  It  was  thus  with  Helen.  But  Sand- 
ford  was  still  more  wretched  at  the  recollection  of  having  been 
the  cause  of  the  sorrow,  which  pressed  upon  the  heart  of  Helen. 
Helen,  however,  was  too  noble,  too  generous,  to  confess  that  she 
was  suffering  the  pangs  of  poverty,  and  it  was  only  by  an  unguard- 
ed sigh  or  tear  that  he  could  detect  the  emotions  of  her  soul. 
Diligently  through  the  day,  and  often  till  the  clock  tolled  twelve 
at  night,  did  she  apply  herself  to  her  needle,  and  was  yet  barely 
able  to  supply  the  necessaries  of  life.  She  had  disposed  of  all  her 
small  stock  of  jewelry,  except  a  splendid  diamond  ring,  which  her 
mother  had  given  her  as  a  keepsake,  and  to  part  with  this  was  a 
struggle  indeed.  But  necessity  is  imperious;  and  to  obtain  cloth- 
ing, she  was  compelled  to  dispose  of  it  at  half  the  value.  When 
she  returned  to  her  cheerless  dwelling  with  the  proceeds,  she 
retired  to  a  secret  place,  and  indulged  long  in  tears. 

Every  day  the  prospects  of  this  ill-fated  pair  became  more 
gloomy;  and  the  wound  of  Sandford  having  proved  obstinate  in 
healing,  he  was  unable  to  walk  or  exert  himself  in  any  manner. 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  write  to  my  father  for  assistance,"  said 
Helen  one  day,  as  she  came  in  from  a  fruitless  attempt  to  sell  her 
needle-work.  "He  certainly  will  not  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the  cry  of 
distress,  in  the  hour  of  penitence,  when  that  appeal  is  made  by 
his  own  child." 

Sandford  was  silent — his  heart  was  too  full  to  speak,  for  he  felt 
that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  all  their  suffering. 

"I  have  sold  all  my  jewelry,  and  every  thing  that  I  can  spare," 
continued  Helen,  as  a  tear  stole  down  her  cheek,  "and  as  a  last 
resort,  I  will  write  to  him  for  assistance;  he  can  but  refuse  me, 
though  I  cannot  think  he  can  have  the  heart  to  do  so." 

Helen  sat  down  to  write,  full  of  hope,  for  he  had  never  refused 
in  other  days  to  grant  any  thing  she  asked,  and  she  really  believed 
that  if  she  humbled  herself  penitentially,  and  portrayed  her  forlorn 
and  suffering  condition,  he  would  yield  to  her  entreaties. 


428  WRITINGS    OF    THE    iMILFORD    BARD. 

Colonel  Mac  Trever  was  sitting  alone  in  his  sumptuous  parlor 
when  the  letter  was  brought  in;  the  letter  penned  by  his  unhappy 
and  suffering  daughter.  He  read  it  with  deep  emotion — 

"My  DEAR  FATHER — Conscious  that  I  have  infringed  the  dictates  of  filial 
affection,  and  sorry  that  I  have  done  aught  to  displease  so  good  a  father,  I  now 
in  the  depth  of  humility  appeal  to  you  for  assistance  in  my  distress.  My  hus- 
band, wounded  in  the  cause  of  American  freedom,  is  unable  to  leave  his  bed; 
and  with  the  exertion  of  my  hands  day  and  night,  I  am  unable  to  command 
even  the  necessaries  of  life.  1  implore  you  in  the  name  of  my  sainted  mother, 
not  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  my  appeal,  and  not  to  let  prejudice  excite  you  against 
my  husband;  for  you  have  been  deceived  in  his  character.  He  is  the  firm 
friend  of  freedom,  and  joins  me  in  asking  you  for  the  means  of  support,  until 
his  wound  will  permit  him  to  exercise  himself  for  our  own  benefit.  Should 
you  turn  from  us,  I  see  no  alternative  but  the  most  abject  poverty  and  want." 

The  excited  father  threw  down  the  letter,  and  walked  the  floor. 
In  the  mean  time,  Helen  and  her  suffering  husband  were  brooding 
over  their  gloomy  fate.  Inflammation  had  increased  in  the  wound, 
which  Major  Sandford  had  received,  and  fears  were  entertained 
that  amputation  would  be  necessary,  the  bare  idea  of  which, 
plunged  Helen  into  the  greatest  despondency,  though  her  good 
sense  taught  her  to  conceal  her  emotions,  and  cherish  hope  in  the 
mind  of  her  suffering  husband.  The  illusions  of  hope  are  power- 
ful in  a  sick  chamber,  in  supporting  the  mind;  and  the  mind  being 
supported,  the  body  sympathizes.  Many  a  life  has  been  sacrificed 
by  an  injudicious  expression  uttered  by  a  thoughtless  person, 
crushing  hope;  depressing  the  mind;  and  thus,  by  sympathy, 
prostrating  the  whole  body. 

From  day  to  day,  Helen  anxiously  expected  a  letter  from  her 
father,  in  answer  to  her  own  humble  epistle.  Every  morning  she 
looked  from  the  window  to  see  the  postman  coming,  and  often 
she  turned  away  with  a  cold  foreboding  that  her  angry  father 
would  not  deign  to  answer.  Half  her  time  was  occupied  in  at- 
tending to  her  disabled  husband,  and  when,  by  her  weary  labors 
during  the  day  and  night,  she  had  obtained  a  sufficiency  of  the 
coarsest  food  for  one  day,  she  knew  not  from  whence  that  for  the 
next  was  to  come.  Still  in  the  presence  of  her  husband  she  held 
out  a  prospect  of  better  times,  though  in  secret  she  often  indulged 
in  the  bitterest  grief;  not  for  her  own  sufferings,  but  for  those  of 
her  poor  wounded  husband.  Helen  was  eaemplifyiiig  those  noble 
self-sacrificing  traits  of  her  sex,  which  have  truly  rendered  woman 
the  angel  of  the  earth,  and  made  her  the  great  moral  teacher  of 
mankind. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  429 

It  was  on  a  dark  stormy  night,  when  the  spirits  of  the  tempest 
were  abroad,  and  the  north  wind  howled  piteously  round  the 
turrets  of  the  building,  that  Helen  was  watching  by  the  couch  of 
Sandford  in  great  distress.  She  could  no  longer  conceal  the  fact 
that,  with  all  her  exertions,  the  most  pinching  want  was  staring 
them  in  the  face,  from  which  she  could  see  no  hope  of  relief.  So 
unremitting  had  been  her  devotion  to  her  husband,  and  her  atten- 
tion to  the  means  of  procuring  a  subsistence,  that  she  had  made 
but  few  acquaintances;  and  her  pride  revolted  from  calling  on 
them  for  assistance.  She  had  discovered,  too,  what  many  others 
have  done,  that  in  adversity  friendship  is  like  our  philosophy: 
when  we  need  it  the  most,  we  have  the  least  of  it.  The  story  of 
her  misfortunes  had  gone  abroad  among  the  gay  and  the  grand, 
who  had  in  her  days  of  prosperity  welcomed  her  to  their  dwelling, 
and  were  proud  to  do  her  honor,  and  they  now  turned  from  her 
with  a  cold  reserve ;  and  in  consideration  of  her  homely  attire, 
scarcely  deigned  to  salute  her  on  the  street.  But  Helen,  whose 
mind  was  imbued  with  a  knowledge  of  human  nature,  did  not 
regard  the  slights  of  the  frivolous,  who  were  unable  to  judge  of  the 
diamond's  value  unless  it  glittered. 

While  the  suffering  wife  was  thus  consulting  with  her  husband 
on  the  distressing  life  of  want  and  misery  that  lay  before  them,  a 
thundering  knock  was  heard  at.  the  door,  and  Helen  flew  to  open 
it,  with  anxious  expectation.  A  letter  was  handed  to  her,  and  so 
great  was  the  pleasure  that  pervaded  her  heart,  that  she  slammed 
the  door  in  the  face  of  the  astonished  postman,  and  returned  with 
the  speed  of  lightning,  to  communicate  the  happy  tidings. 

"Oh!  my  dear  husband,"  she  exclaimed  exultingly,  "here  is  a 
letter  from  my  dear  father,  and  hope  whispers  that  it  contains 
relief,  or,  at  least  the  promise  of  it.  Something  seemed  to  whis- 
per that,  in  all  our  distress,  a  better  fortune  awaited  us." 

With  smiles  on  her  face,  and  with  an  excitement  that  made  her 
hands  tremble,  she  opened  the  letter  and  read  as  follows : 

"Mr  ONCE  BELOVED  DAUGHTER — You  have  fled  from  my  roof  with  a  mean 
British  spy,  and  have,  therefore,  forfeited  my  protection.  You  must  bring 
stronger  proof  than  you  have  yet  brought,  to  induce  me  to  believe  that  a 
British  spy  was  wounded  in  the  cause  of  freedom.  But  if  you  will  leave  your 
paramour  and  return  to  me,  I  will  in  mercy  guarantee  to  you  a  sufficiency  to  keep 
you  from  want;  but  otherwise,  not  a  penny  of  mine  shall  ever  bless  a  red-coat. " 

As  Helen  read  the  word  paramour,  her  eyes  grew  dim ;  her  head 
swam  with  a  dizzy  sensation;  and,  ere  she  finished  the  letter,  she 
fainted  and  fell  upon  the  floor. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Oh!  God,"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  recovered,  "what  is  to  be- 
come of  us?  Universal  distress  pervades  the  country,  and  poverty 
stalks  abroad.  Cruel,  cruel  father;  thus  to  reflect  upon  the  char- 
acter of  a  daughter,  by  calling  her  husband  a  paramour!  I  could 
have  borne  any  thing  else;  but  this  is  too  severe." 

"Well,"  returned  Sandford  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  useless  to  repine. 
We  have  one  consolation  ;  we  are  as  low  in  the  scale  of  poverty 
as  we  can  sink,  and  if  a  change  takes  place  it  must  be  for  the 
better." 

The  next  day  Helen  went  forth,  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  dispose 
of  some  embroidery,  which  had  cost  her  many  weary  hours  of 
labor.  While  she  was  standing  at  the  counter  of  a  fancy  store, 
pleading  with  the  proprietor  to  buy  her  work,  and  portraying  the 
situation  of  her  wounded  husband,  a  man  came  in,  who,  after 
listening  some  time  to  her  eloquent  language,  interrogated  her  to 
know  whether  she  would  remove  to  New  York  and  work  for  him, 
promising  constant  employment  and  good  wages.  After  disposing 
of  her  work  for  a  pittance,  she  returned  home  to  consulther  husband. 

In  the  present  times  of  prosperity  and  plenty,  few  have  any  idea 
of  the  state  of  the  country  during  that  period  of  privation  and  dis- 
tress, when  war  and  carnage  were  scattering  ruin  over  the  land. 

O  O 

Not  only  was  the  country  bankrupt  and  business  stagnant,  but 
great  was  the  burthen  under  which  all  classes  of  society  struggled; 
and  dreadful  were  the  crimes  which  sprung  from  the  universal 
poverty  and  privation  that  prevailed. 

Helen  soon  obtained  the  consent  of  her  husband,  and  in  a  few 
days  they  were  domiciled  in  one  of  the  obscure  streets  of  New 
York,  where  she  diligently  set  herself  down  to  her  needle,  though 
she  soon  found  that  with  constant  application,  she  could  gain  but 
a  very  meagre  support.  But  she  was  cheered  by  the  assurance  of 
a  physician  that  Sandford's  wound  had  assumed  a  healthy  aspect, 
and  that  there  was  a  prospect  that  it  would  soon  heal;  which  as- 
surance, in  a  measure,  caused  her  to  disregard  the  severity  of  her 
incessant  toil.  The  labor  of  women  then,  as  at  the  present  day, 
was  poorly  compensated;  affording  but  a  bare  subsistence,  and 
often  falling  far  short  of  that. 

Two  months  after  their  removal  to  New  York,  Sandford  had  so 
far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  go  out ;  though,  from  the  combined 
effects  of  privation  and  suffering,  he  was  reduced  almost  to  a  skel- 
eton, for  often  did  Helen  shed  bitter  tears  when  she  informed  him 
that  she  had  nothing  to  offer  him  to  eat.  There  is  nothing  that 
humiliates  (he  mind  so  much  as  penury,  and  no  misfortune  so  hard 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  431 

to  bear  as  the  sudden  fall  from  affluence  to  poverty;  notwithstand- 
ing the  fact,  that  the  sudden  acquisition  of  wealth  has  a  greater 
influence  over  the  mind,  for  good  or  evil,  than  any  other  circum- 
stance. Much  had  poverty  humiliated  Helen,  for  she  had  seen 
the  time  when  it  would  have  been  impossible  fbr  her  to  stoop  to 
the  needle  as  the  means  of  subsistence,  and  her  pride  would  have 
revolted  at  the  idea  of  wrangling  in  the  shop  of  a  marchand  des 
modes  for  the  sale  of  embroidery.  Her  acquaintances  in  New 
York,  as  well  as  those  in  Philadelphia,  had  forgotten  her  in  adver- 
sity, and  passed  by  her  with  eyes  askance,  as  she  trudged  her  way 
through  rain  and  snow,  dressed  in  a  thin,  faded  calico  dress,  to 
obtain  food  for  herself  and  half-starving  husband.  They  knew  her 
not  in  poverty,  though  they  had  once  been  proud  of  her  acquaint- 
ance. Such  is  the  power  of  the  mighty  dollar. 

One  day  when  Sandford  had  gone  forth  in  search  of  employment, 
he  met  a  man  who  stared  at  him  with  .a  steadfast  gaze,  and  fol- 
lowed his  footsteps  to  a  short  distance  from  the  door  of  his  dwell- 
ing. The  face  of  the  curious  individual  he  thought  he  had  seen, 
but  so  much  did  his  mind  dwell  upon  the  subject  of  employment, 
and  the  means  of  acquiring  a  subsistence,  and  of  lessening  the  bur- 
den of  his  devoted  wife,  that  the  man  and  his  face  were  soon  for- 
gotten. But  not  many  hours  had  passed,  ere  a  loud  knock  was 
heard  at  the  street  door  of  their  humble  dwelling,  and  the  startled 
Helen,  dropping  her  work,  and  running  to  the  window,  beheld 
four  or  five  soldiers  waiting  for  admittance. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  opened  the  door,  "on  what 
errand  do  you  come  to  this  house  of  suffering?  Our  sorrows  are 
great  enough  already,  without  the  addition  of  any  more." 

"  We  come,  madam,  to  arrest  a  vile  spy,"  replied  a  hoarse  voice, 
"who  basely  attempted,  at  Chadd's  Ford,  to  betray  the  guardian 
spirit  of  America.  Seize  him  instantly ;  he  shall  not  escape  again." 
In  a  moment  the  weak,  attenuated  form  of  Sandford,  was  in 
the  grasp  of  a  powerful  gigantic  man,  who  dragged  him  towards 
the  door,  while  Helen  clung  to  her  husband  and  screamed — "Oh! 
for  Heaven's  sake  have  mercy  on  rny  poor  husband;  he  is  inno- 
cent— he  is  not  guilty  of  the  charge." 

"Away  with  the  villain,"  roared  the  same  hoarse  voice,  "and 
let  not  a  woman's  tears,  or  a  woman's  prayers  unman  you!" 

As  the  unrelenting  soldiers  hurried  Sandford  out  on  the  street, 
where  a  great  crowd  had  collected,  Helen  swooned  and  fell  on 
the  floor — I  say  on  the  floor,  for  necessity  had  compelled  her  to 
sell  the  only  carpet  she  possessed  to  obtain  food.  Long  did  she 


432  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

lie  there  in  a  state  of  utter  insensibility,  and  awoke  only  to  a  con- 
sciousness of  her  forlorn  condition.  When  she  looked  into  the 
future,  she  saw  nothing  but  a  continuation  of  her  miseries;  for 
hope,  the  last  lingering  tenant  of  Pandora's  Box,  and  the  last 
friend  of  the  wretched,  had  departed.  She  had  often  written  to 
her  father,  but  her  appeals  were  all  in  vain.  He  had  deigned  to 
answer  her  but  twice. 

Sandford  was  now  incarcerated ;  and  for  his  especial  comfort, 
to  speak  ironically,  he  was  informed,  that  it  was  at  the  instigation 
of  Colonel  Mac  Trever  that  he  was  arrested,  and  that  he  might 
expect  no  favor.  Death,  ignominious  death,  was  his  portion. 
At  the  same  time  they  shook  in  his  face  the  manuscript  of  the 
letter  to  Gen.  Howe,  which  Col.  Mac  Trever  found  in  the  garden. 

Despair  sat  upon  the  brow  of  Helen,  as  she  wandered,  shivering 
through  the  cold  sleety  street  to  thet  place  of  her  husband's  con- 
finementi-but  no  sooneo-  did  he  assure  her  that  he  had  nothing  to 
expect  but  death,  than  all  the  heroic  spirit  of  the  woman  rose  up 
in  her  soul. 

"Then  I  will  die  with  you,"  she  exclaimed,  "and  one  grave 
shall  forever  hide  our  wrongs  and  our  wretchedness.  I  despair  of 
ever  disabusing  my  father  of  the  error  under  which  he  labors,  with 
regard  to  your  guilt;  but,  perhaps,  when  he  has  murdered  his  own 
daughter,  and  she  ^sleeps  in  the  grave,  some  circumstance  may 
unravel  the  mystery,  and  bring  home  to  his  heart  the  wrongs  she 
has  endured." 

Every  day  did  the  devoted  wife  seek  the  gloomy  prison  of  her 
husband,  with  the  view  of  instilling  comfort  into  his  mind.  Sand- 
ford  feared  not  death  so  much  as  to  meet  a  punishment  he  did  not 
deserve.  The  court-martial  assembled  for  his  trial,  and  all  the 
witnesses  were  present,  save  Colonel  Mac  Trever  and  his  son 
Donald.  The  Judge-Advocate  summoned  the  witnesses,  one  by 
one,  and  the  trial  proceeded;  but  not  a  sympathetic  tear  fell  for 
the  unfortunate  Sandford.  Every  heart  was  embittered  against 
him.  Helen,  who  had  summoned  up  all  the  fortitude  she  pos- 
sessed, stood  up  by  her  husband :  but  her  heart  often  quailed,  as 
the  evidence  of  those  who  had  guarded  him  at  Chadd's  Ford, 
went  to  convict  him.  At  length  all  the  evidence  had  been  given, 
save  that  of  Colonel  Mac  Trever  and  his  son,  and  as  the  Court 
were  confident  that  already  sufficient  had  been  given  to  convict 
the  prisoner,  it  was  concluded  not  to  wait  for  them,  but  to  close. 

That  night  no  sleep  fell  upon  the  eyelids  of  Helen  Sandford. 
The  next  day  after  hastily  despatching  her  scanty  morning  meal, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  433 

she  trod  with  a  heavy  heart,  the  street  that  led  to  the  prison  of 
her  doomed  husband.  The  prisoner  was  already  arraigned,  and, 
as  the  dreadful  word  GUILTY  fell  upon  her  ear,  she  uttered  a 
scream;  staggered  and  would  have  fallen,  had  not  a  bystander 
caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"He  is  innocent!  he  is  innocent!"  she  at  length  exclaimed, 
"Heaven  is  witness  he  is  innocent." 

"Conduct  the  prisoner  away,"  said  the  Judge-Advocate. 

"Nay,  one  moment,"  cried  a  voice  aloud,  and  Donald  Mac 
Trever,  followed  by  the  Colonel,  his  father,  who  had  just  arrived, 
rushed  to  the  spot  just  after  the  verdict  had  been  pronounced. 

"It  is  he,  indeed!"  exclaimed  Donald,  after  scrutinizing  the 
features  of  Sandford  ;  "it  is  the  man  who,  at  the  risk  of  his  own, 
saved  my  life  during  the  battle  at  the  Brandywine,  when  a  powerful 
Hessian  had  cloven  me  to  the  earth.  There  must  be  some  myste- 
rious mistake  in  this  matter,  for  I  saw  'this  man  fighling  like  a 
tiger  in  the  cause  of  freedom,  during  the 'whole  battle." 

Sandford,  emboldened  by  this,  handed  a  paper,  which  he  had 
just  written,  to  Colonel  Mac  Trever,  explaining  the  whole  matter, 
and  particularly  how  the  Colonel  had  been  deceived  in  regard  to 
the  manuscript  letter,  which  he  found  in  the  garden,  all  of  which 
was  corroborated  by  Helen.  The  matter  now  wore  entirely  a 
new  face;  Sandford  was  immediately  liberated,  and  Colonel  Mac 
Trever  advanced ;  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  expressed  his  sor- 
row that  he  had  been  so  much  deceived.  Joy  now  lit  up  the 
faces  of  Helen  and  her  husband;  the  anxieties  and  privations  they 
had  suffered,  were  forgotten ;  and  their  young  hearts  were  bound 
by  still  stronger  ties. 

At  the  earnest  solicitation  of  both  the  father  and  son,  the  happy 
pair,  after  so  much  suffering,  returned  to  Chadd's  Ford,  and  in  the 
old  mansion,  freed  from  all  care,  and  surrounded  by  every  thing 
their  hearts  could  wish,  spent  many  happy  days.  Sandford,  with 
Donald,  afterward  joined  the  American  army,  in  which  they  dis- 
tinguished themselves  by  their  valor;  and  after  Cornwallis  was 
taken  and  the  war  ended  in  the  triumph  of  liberty,  returned  home 
to  spend  the  balance  of  their  lives  in  honorable  ease.  From  the 
marriage  of  Helen  Mac  Trever  and  Major  Sandford,  sprung  some 
of  the  most  talented  and  wealthy  citizens,  who  by  their  virtues 
have  dignified  and  adorned  this  community;  one  of  whom  has 
been  honored  with  a  diplomatic  commission  to  Europe,  and  is  now 
a  distinguished  member  of  Congress  from  a  neighboring  State. 

55 


434  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


Mara  lmfjj-3^  anfr  Stand 


I  SAW  him  stretched  upon  his  bed, 

With  languid  lip  and  eye: 
No  tears  for  him  had  yet  been  shed, 

Tho'  he  was  doomed  to  die. 
No  friends  had  he,  alas!  no  wife, 

To  weep  around  him  now; 
Almost  he  was  alone  in  life — 

Despair  was  on  his  brow. 

One  morn  I  sought  his  bed,  and  oh ! 

A  touching  scene  was  there; 
A  scene  that  filled  my  heart  with  woe, 

A  scene  of  dark  despair; 
A  little  girl,  his  only  child, 

Stood  gazing  in  his  eye, 
Oft  crying  out,  in  accsnts  wild, 

"Dear  father,  will  you  die?" 

The  dying  father  turned  his  head 

To  gaze  upon  her  charms, 
A  tear  upon  her  cheek  he  shed, 

And  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 
He  strove  to  speak  in  tender  tone> 

And  while  in  grief  she  cried, 
"Dear  father  leave  me  not  alone," 

He  groaned — and  wept — and  died. 

To  Potter's  Field  I  saw  him  borne, 

To  he  beneath  the  sod; 
There  was  but  one  for  him  to  mourn, 

And  three  to  break  the  clod; 
No  funeral  pomp,  no  funeral  prayer, 

No  funeral  emblems  wave; 
One  little  girl  alone  stood  there» 

And  wept  upon  his  grave. 

Had  he  possess 'd  of  gold  a  store, 

He  might  have  been  a  knave; 
Yet  hundreds  would  have  found  his  door, 

And  followed  to  his  grave. 
And  thus  it  is,  and  was  of  old — 

Disguise  it  as  you  can — 
The  man  has  made  a  god  of  gold, 

And  money  makes  the  man. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   M1LFORD    BARD.  435 


Excited  in  my  mind,  while  standing  on  the  battle-ground  at  Chadd's  Ford;  where, 
on  the  llth  of  September,  1777,  was  fought  the  famous  Battle  of  Brandywine. 

I  HAVE  visited  many  battle  and  duelling  grounds,  but  never  have  I  witnessed  so  romantic 
a  scene  or  so  lovely  a  landscape,  as  when  I  ascended  the  lofty  hill  on  which  General 
Washington  took  his  stand,  and  poured  down  a  deadly  fire  on  the  enemy  in  the  valley. 
In  company  with  a  party  of  literary  gentlemen,  I  enjoyed  the  splendid  prospect,  while 
imagination  pictured  to  my  view  the  grand  drama  that  had  been  enacted  there  in  other  days. 
It  is  a  beautiful  rolling  country,  and  from  the  summit  of  the  hill  the  variegated  landscape 
extends  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  in  all  directions.  But  no  mementoes  are  left  of  the 
battle.  A  calm  sunshine  and  solitary  silence  now  rest  on  those  fields,  those  hills  and  val- 
leys, which  have  been  drenched  with  American  and  British  blood. 

OH!  can  it  be  that  on  this  lovely  land, 

Where  I  in  musing  meditation  stand, 

Wai-  woke  these  woodlands  to  the  sound  of  woe, 

Sent  back  by  echoes  from  the  vales  below? 

Did  here  the  clarion's  blast,  in  wild  alarms, 

Call  forth  the  sons  of  chivalry  to  arms? 

Say,  did  the  car  of  carnage  roll  along 

These  peaceful  valleys,  sacred  now  to  song? 

Ah!   yes,  methinks  I  hear  the  cannon's  roar, 

Reverberate  down  Brandy  wine's  dark  shore; 

Dying  in  distance,  while  its  thunder  fills 

A  hundred  flowery  fields  and  cloud-capt  hills; 

Methinks  I  see,  ev'n  at  this  silent  hour, 

Proud  England's  army  clothed  in  pomp  and  power; 

Hark !  to  the  piercing  fife,  the  doubling  drum ! 

Ha!  now  they  cross  the  stream — they  come!  they  come! 

I  see  the  glittering  gun,  the  waving  plume, 

And  blood-red  garment — 'tis  a  day  of  doom ! 

Behold  the  lofty  Hessians !  like  a  flood 

Of  giant  monsters,  now  they  come  for  blood; 

In  Britain's  ranks,  bought  up  by  British  gold, 

They  by  Hesse  Cassel's  tyrant  have  been  sold; 

They  come  to  scatter  death  and  misery, 

To  butcher  men  determined  to  be  free. 

Oh !  Liberty,  how  lovely  are  thy  charms, 

Thus  to  call  forth  embattling  bands  to  arms  T 

T'  avenge  his  country's  wrongs,  her  rights  to  save, 

To  win  a  glorious  garland,  or  a  grave; 

To  rend  the  chains  of  cheerless  slavery, 

To  give  to  unborn  millions  liberty; 

To  dash  the  sceptre  from  the  despot's  hand, 

Heroes  have  nobly  bled,  and  patriots  plann'd. 


436  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD, 

All  Nature  sighs  for  freedom — from  the  cage 
The  bird,  though  crush 'd  by  indolence  and  age, 
Pines  for  the  green  old  woods  and  flowery  grove, 
To  pour,  at  morning  light,  its  lay  of  love: 
The  lion  walks  his  dungeon,  not  his  cave, 
And  feels,  with  wounded  pride,  he  is  a  slave; 
Strikes  with  disdain  the  iron  bars,  and  sighs 
To  roam  on  Afric's  desert,  'neath  her  skies; 
Or  longs  to  lie  beneath  some  shady  tree, 
Stretching  his  noble  limbs  in  liberty. 
Oh!  Liberty,  before  thy  sacred  shrine, 
Nations  have  knelt  to  catch  thy  smile  divine; 
From  heroes'  hearts,  upon  Columbia's  shore, 
Hath  reek'd  full  many  a  tide  of  gushing  gore! 

Upon  this  hill  did  Freedom's  Father  stand, 
Design 'd  the  saviour  of  a  sinking  land; 
Battling  with  Britain's  host  for  liberty- 
Approaching  armies  now  I  seem  to  see; 
Like  pent  up  tides  let  loose,  they  rush  in  might, 
With  clashing  steel,  and  waving  banners  bright; 
Like  wheat  before  the  farmer's  scythe,  they  fall, 
And  scenes  are  here  which  stoutest  hearts  appal: 
Methinks  a  freeman's  dying  groan  I  hear, 
And  now  a  Britain's  death  shriek  fills  mine  ear; 
The  expiring  Hessian  turns  his  eye  in  shame, 
To  Europe's  shores,  and  sighs  to  think  he  came 
To  fight  a  people,  who  no  wrong  had  given, 
Whose  cause  was  sanction 'd  in  the  sight  of  Heaven; 
Methinks  I  see  proud  Freedom's  band  retire, 
Before  the  daring  Britain's  deadly  fire; 
But  dear  the  triumph  and  the  trophies  here, 
Which  cost  the  hero's  blood,  the  widow's  tear; 
And  taught  old  England  that  the  CHIEF  who  flies, 
Will,  like  Antaeus,  from  the  earth  arise, 
Renew 'd  in  vigor,  nor  shall  England's  ire, 
Strangle,  like  Hercules,  fair  Freedom's  Sire; 
Her  mourning  mothers  oft  shall  rue,  in  fine, 
The  day  they  met  on  bloody  Brandywine. 

Oh!  War,  what  horrors  follow  in  thy  train, 
What  scenes  of  grief,  of  dark  despair  and  pain? 
Methinks  I  see  the  dying  and  the  dead, 
Adown  this  hill,  upon  their  grassy  bed; 
I  hear  the  cry  of  wounded  men,  in  vain, 
Calling  on  wives  and  children,  o'er  the  main; 
Calling  on  wives  and  children,  they  no  more 
Shall  see  on  life's  now  fast  receding  shore: 
I  see  the  forms  of  those  who  died,  that  we 
Might  live  and  long  enjoy  the  liberty, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  437 

For  which  they  fought,  for  which  they  nobly  fell, 

And  to  whose  memory  we  the  anthem  swell. 

Alas!   'tis  strange  a  brother's  hand  should  seek, 

And  in  a  brother's  blood  so  oft  should  reek! 

Oh!  War,  along  thy  blood-stain 'd  path  we  see 

But  wrecks  and  ruins;  pain  and  misery; 

To  dignify  one  despot,  thou  hast  hurl'd 

Thy  bolts;  in  blood  baptizing  half  a  world; 

Thy  crimson  car,  to  fill  a  conqueror's  store, 

Hath  roll'd  o'er  ruin'd  empires  drench 'd  in  gore; 

Not  so  the  glorious  Washington  appeal 'd 

Unto  his  sword,  on  Freedom's  sacred  field: 

Unlike  Great  Alexander,  he  unfurl 'd 

His  banner  not  to  conquer  all  the  world; 

Unlike  proud  Csesar,  he  no  power  sought, 

But  for  the  welfare  of  a  world  he  fought; 

He  drew  his  sword  with  reason,  not  with  rage, 

That  unborn  millions,  in  a  future  age, 

Might  reap  the  harvest  and,  in  luxury, 

Enjoy  the  fruits  of  blessed  liberty: 

Unlike  Napoleon,  fill'd  with  dark  deceit, 

The  scourge  of  nations  kneeling  at  his  feet; 

He  sought  no  triumph  in  ambition's  hour, 

Nor  prostituted  principle  to  power; 

Not  England's  King,  with  all  his  gold  or  wrath, 

Could  move  his  mighty  soul  from  duty's  path; 

He  stood  alone,  the  wonder  of  the  world, 

And  to  the  nations  Freedom's  flag  unfurl 'd; 

He  was  by  God  a  grand  example  sent 

To  mourning  millions,  who  their  claims  have  rent. 

The  time  shall  come  when,  at  his  name  alone, 

The  trembling  tyrant,  from  his  tottering  throne, 

Shall  fall,  and  feel  no  RIGHT  DIVINE  to  knaves 

Is  giv'n,  by  GRACE  OF  GOD,  to  govern  slaves; 

And  crumbling  crowns  be  crush'd  on  Europe's  fields, 

Touch 'd  by  the  sacred  sceptre  Freedom  wields: 

The  name  of  him,  who  here  once  took  his  stand, 

The  glorious  liberator  of  our  land — 

In  future  time,  on  Freedom's  flag  unfurl 'd, 

Shall  be  the  mighty  watchword  of  the  world. 


438  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 


i  Stonb  nf 


WRITTEN  at  midnight,  by  moonlight,  while  seated  on  a  high  rock  with  a  literary  friend, 
who  was  watching  the  moon's  rays  as  they  danced  on  the  surface  of  the  tumbling 
waters,  and  dreaming  of  the  wild  legends  of  other  days. 

TWAS  at  the  witching  hour  of  nightj 
When  Heav'n  and  earth  were  laved  in  light; 
My  friend  and  I  together  sate, 
High  on  a  rock,  to  contemplate 
Sweet  Nature's  solitudes  sublime, 
Tho'  changed,  yet  still  untouched  by  time, 
And  watch  the  waters  as  they  fell, 
Echoing  thro'  woodland,  dale  and  dell. 

The  moon  was  high  in  Heav'n,  and  beam'd 
•        Upon  the  waters,  while  she  seem'd 
To  contemplate  her  image  there, 
So  bright  in  beauty  and  so  fair; 
And  as  she  kiss'd  each  billow's  breast, 
That  rose  and  soon  was  rock'd  to  rest; 
It  seemed  as  if  all  Heav'n  did  shine 
Beneath  romantic  Brandywine, 
That  like  a  mirror  lit  with  light, 
Reflected  all  the  forms  of  night. 

Silence  and  solitude  abound, 
And  not  a  sight,  and  not  a  sound 
Now  greets  mine  eye  or  listening  ear, 
Save  the  loud  waters  tumbling  near, 
And  green  old  woods,  whose  monarchs  stand 
The  glory  of  Columbia's  land. 
But  in  these  solitudes  I  find 
A  solace  for  a  sorrowing  mind, 
And  here  full  many  hour  of  late, 
I've  sat  to  muse  and  meditate 
On  Nature's  charms,  in  ancient  days, 
Ere  Art  display  'd  her  wondrous  ways; 
And  for  the  sake  of  glittering  gold, 
Turned  streams  from  beds  they  wash'd  of  old. 
Upon  this  rock  I  love  to  soar, 
In  fancy,  back  to  days  of  yore; 
When  thro'  these  wild  romantic  woods, 
And  o'er  the  Brandy  wine's  bright  floods, 
The  Indian  hunter's  loud  halloo 
Rung  out,  and  glided  his  canoe: 
Methinks  I  see  the  wigwam  near, 
Methinks  the  war-whoop  now  I  hear: 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  439 

And  horrid  yell  of  victory, 

While  up  the  distant  stream,  1  see 

The  dusky  forms  of  warriors  red 

With  blood  from  many  a  foeman  shed; 

Here  on  this  spot,  in  ancient  days, 

Methinks  the  council-fire's  blaze 

Went  up;  while,  here,  beneath  this  shade, 

The  savage  war-dance  was  displayed; 

Perhaps  upon  this  rock,  at  night, 

The  Indian  lover,  by  moonlight, 

Once  wooed  his  dusky  paramour, 

Before  her  father's  wigwam  door! 

But  ah!  where  are  they  now? — no  more 

The  war-whoop  rings  along  this  shore; 

No  more  along  this  silver  tide, 

The  light  canoe  is  seen  to  glide; 

No  trace  of  wigwam  here  is  seen, 

Upon  these  beauteous  banks  of  green; 

The  council-fire  has  long  gone  out, 

And  hushed  is  now  the  war-dance  shout; 

The  Indian  warrior's  feet  have  fled, — 

They  rest  with  all  the  mighty  dead; 

A  remnant  of  that  powerful  race, 

Alone  in  distant  wilds  we  trace; 

Fading  away,  they  soon  will  pass 

From  earth,  like  shadows  o'er  a  glass; 

Till  the  last  Indian  meets  his  doom, 

And  sinks  into  the  silent  tomb. 

I  mourn  their  fate,  I  mourn  their  fall, 

I  weep  their  ruin,  wrongs  and  all; 

But  was  it  the  design  of  God, 

The  white  man  should  usurp  their  sod  ? 

Is  this  the  heathen  that  is  given, 

As  an  inheritance  by  Heaven? 

Is  this  the  desert  land  of  woes, 

Destined  to  blossom  as  the  rose? 

Alas !  the  last  lone  Indian  here, 
Has  dropp'd  his  unavailing  tear; 
And  turned  his  footsteps  to  the  West, 
His  hopeless  heart  with  grief  oppress'd; 
Leaving  the  land  he  loved  to  trace, 
That  holds  the  relics  of  his  race; 
The  tombs  of  his  once  gallant  sires, 
That  on  these  hills  lit  battle's  fires. 
The  forests,  that  around  arose, 
Have  fallen  before  the  woodman's  blows; 
And  industry,  with  tireless  hand, 
Has  bid  to  bloom  a  happy  land; 
Where  plenty  now  forever  showers 
Her  golden  grain,  her  fruits  and  flowers. 


440  WRITINGS    OF  THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

And  see  where  yonder  city  rears 

Her  happy  homes,  and,  smiling,  cheers 

Her  sons  to  honest  toil,  that  won 

The  wealth  that  now  crowns  Wilmington! 

Upon  that  stream,  so  fair  to  view, 

Where  erst  the  Indian's  bark  canoe 

Was  seen  at  morn  in  grace  to  glide, 

Like  lightning  o'er  Christina's  tide, 

The  sails  of  commerce  are  unfurl 'd, 

For  wealth  to  wander  o'er  the  world; 

Bending  in  beauty  to  the  breeze, 

And  bearing  back,  o'er  sunny  seas, 

The  luxuries  of  every  shore, 

Till  happy  man  can  wish  no  more. 

Oh!  land  of  plenty! — teeming  sod! 

How  changed  since  here  the  Indian  trod. 

And  was  it  strange  that  he  should  stand, 

Battling  for  this  all-lovely  land? 

That  he  should  bathe  his  hands  in  gore, 

The  white  man's  blood,  upon  this  shore? 

Rise,  soldiers,  from  your  gory  graves ! 

Rise  Revolutionary  braves ! 

And  say  for  what  ye  fought  and  fell, 

When  England  loosed  her  hounds  of  hell. 

The  children  of  the  forests  here, 
Pass'd  many  a  bright  and  blissful  year; 
Amid  these  scenes,  this  stream  beside, 
The  hunter  lived  and  loved  and  died; 
But  ah!  the  march  of  mind  roll'd  on, 
Roll'd  o'er  him,  and  the  Indian's  gone; 
These  lovely  shades  and  scenes  sublime, 
Are  silent  as  the  step  of  time; 
No  trace  is  left,  save  o'er  the  ground, 
By  curious  eyes,  their  darts  are  found;* 
The  sons  of  science  sought  his  bower, 
Strong  in  their  intellectual  power; 
The  savage  fled  in  deep  disgrace,     • 
And  now  a  remnant  of  his  race- 
Alone  in  distant  wilds  we  find, 
Sad  victims  to  the  might  of  mind. 

Is  it  then  strange,  in  its  control, 
Vengeance  should  fire  the  Indian's  soul? 
Or  is  it  strange  revenge  should  fire 
Hia  heart  with  hatred's  hottest  ire? 
Oh!  no;  when  in  that  awful  hour, 
Old  England,  in  the  pride  of  power, 

*  A  gentleman  of  this  city  shewed  me  more  than  a  hundred  darts  which  he  picked 
up  in  a  field.    They  are  of  different  sizes. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  441 

Dared  to  our  shores  to  send  her  tea, 
The  white  men  struck  for  liberty, 
Though  not  from  his  possessions  driven, 
He  for  his  rights  appeal'd  to  Heaven; 
The  sword  leap'd  to  his  daring  hand, — 
He  fought  and  fell  for  freedom's  land. 

And  what  remains  of  all  that  race, 
That  once  upon  these  shores  we  trace? 
Fading  away — a  mournful  doom — 
Soon  the  last  Indian  in  the  tomb 
Will  pillow  his  unhappy  head, 
Slumb'ring  with  all  the  mighty  dead. 
In  future  times,  when  long  at  rest, 
Upon  some  river  of  the  West, 
An  Athens  or  a  Rome  shall  rise, 
The  youth  shall  ask,  with  deep  surprise, 
What  manner  of  men  they  were,  who  trod, 
(Their  charter  giv'n  alone  by  God,)       " 
The  mighty  masters  in  command, 
Of  this  now  great  and  glorious  land. 

Oh!  Brandywine,  how  changed  art  thou, 
By  Art's  proud  triumph  and  the  plough! 


WHENE'ER  I  view  a  man  of  sense, 

Peruse  the  Scriptures  to  deny 
The  truths  of  blest  Omnipotence, 

And  call  the  Holy  Book  a  lie; 
T  call  him  fool,  or  heedless  youth, 

Such  noble  doctrines  to  unroll, 
And  not  believe  the  sacred  truth, 

It  must  be  dropsy  of  the  soul. 

Whene'er  I  view  or  young  or  old, 

A  man  devoted  to  himself, 
And  make  a  god  of  paltry  gold, 

And  boast  his  greatness  in  his  pelf, 
I  say  that  man's  corrupt  in  heart, 

His  principles  cannot  be  whole, 
And  he  is  sickly  in  that  part, 

Where  dwells  the  plethora  of  soul. 

56 


OF   LIBERTY- TOWN,   MARYLAND, 

HO  recently  sent  me,  as  a  present,  a  money- 
purse  made  of  the  skin  of  a  mole;  and  a  specta- 
cle case,  both  manufactured  by  his  own  hands. 
My  venerable  friend,  no  doubt,  enjoyed  more 
pleasure  in  making  them,  than  during  the  battle 
of  Tripoli,  when  the  brave  Decatur  was  battling 
with  the  Turks.  The  Doctor  must  have  had  his 
hands  full,  after  the  bloody  taking  of  the  ship 
Philadelphia.  Accounts  slate  that  Decatur  and 
his  men,  after  boarding,  fought  hand  to  hand  with 
the  enemy,  and  that,  at  one  time,  the  Commodore 
was  down  with  a  stalwart  Turk,  an  the  deck, 
who  was  in  the  act,  with  uplifted  arm,  of  stabbing 
him  to  the  heart,  when  one  of  his  (Decatur's) 
men,  a  Frenchman,  presented  a  pistol  and  shot 
the  Turk  through  the  uplifted  arm,  thus  saving 
the  life  of  the  noble  Commodore,  who  was,  alas!  destined,  in  the 
mysterious  course  of  Providence,  to  fall  by  the  hand  of  his  own 
countryman.  How  strange,  that  he  should  have  escaped  so  many 
imminent  dangers,  in  battling  with  the  enemies  of  his  country,  only 
to  die  by  the  hand  of  an  American,  his  own  countryman.  If  my 
friend,  Dr.  John  W.  Dorsey,  would  write  out  a  short  history  of  the 
engagement  at  Tripoli,  and  re-taking  of  the  ship  Philadelphia,  as 
he  witnessed  the  bloody  scene,  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  many 
readers.  He  was  with  Decatur,  and  must  remember  the  events. 

As  it  is  my  custom  to  muse  on,  and  draw  a  moral  from,  every 
thing  I  see,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  do  so  in  regard  to  the  mole- 
skin purse  and  spectacle  case,  which  my  friend  has  been  so  kind  as 
to  send  me.  There  are  many  little  things  in  every  day  life,  which 
may  serve  as  subjects  of  the  deepest  reflection,  both  morally  and 
philosophically.  The  most  profound  train  of  moral  reflections 
into  which  I  have  been  led  for  a  long  time,  sprung,  some  time 
ago,  from  observing  a  dog  with  a  muzzle  on  his  mouth.  I  saw 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  443 

him,  on  the  street,  looking  with  anxious  eye  at  a  piece  of  meat, 
which  had  been  thrown  from  the  market. — I  saw  him  approach  it, 
and  with  a  most  affectionate  smile,  smell  the  delicious  aroma  that 
proceeded  from  it. — I  saw  him  open  his  mouth  to  receive  the 
tempting  morceau,  and  watched  him  as  the  consciousness  flashed 
upon  his  mind  that  he  was  muzzled.  Oh!  my  friend,  you  cannot 
imagine  my  feelings,  when  I  witnessed  the  expression  of  despair, 
that  spread  over  that  poor  dog's  countenance!  I  burst  into  tears, 
and  resolved  that  my  next  story  should  be  called  the  Muzzled 
Dog. — You  will  wonder  my  dear  Doctor,  why  I  wept — I  will  tell 
you.  The  scene  reminded  me  strongly  of  many  events  among 
men,  and  particularly  as  it  regarded  the  sad  fate  of  a  young  fe- 
male friend. 

DEAR  Doctor,  when  I  gaze  upon  this  purse, 
It  speaks  of  money  and  its  mighty  curse; 
And  of  its  blessing,  too,  for  both,  1  ween, 
Have  from  it  sprung,  as  you  and  I  have  seen. 
Ah!  what  for  money  will  not  man  forego? 
For  it  he  dares  e'en  danger,  death  and  woe; 
For  it  he  wanders  dreary  waste  or  wave, 
And  but  to  win  it,  wooes  an  early  grave: 
Behold  him  toiling  many  a  weary  day, 
To  die  and  leave  his  wealth  to  waste  away; 
Or  to  be  squander 'd  by  a  worthless  son, 
Whose  worthlessness  from  wealth  alone  begun ! 
Behold  th'  assassin,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Seeking  the  miser's  secret  source  of  power! 
For  gold  he  grasps  the  glittering  dagger — gold 
Banishes  fear,  and  makes  the  coward  bold; 
For  gold  he  dips  his  hands  in  human  gore, 
For  that  he  spurns  all  danger,  death,  yea,  more, 
The  red  arm  of  the  wrath  of  God,  and  all 
That  in  a  future  world  may  him  befall. 

Dear  Doctor,  when  upon  this  purse  I  gaze, 
It  speaks  of  deeds  full  worthy  of  all  praise; 
It  tells  of  pining  poverty  and  woe, 
Relieved  by  gold,  which  generous  hands  bestow; 
Of  many  a  heart  made  happy  by  its  power, 
Hearts  that  were  breaking  in  despair's  dark  hour; 
It  tells  of  many  an  orphan  snatch 'd  from  crime, 
And  want;  yea,  more— of  many  a  deed  sublime, 
Which  shed  a  glory  on  the  human  heart, 
And  did  a  grandeur  to  the  soul  impart; 
Oh!  Money,  source  of  every  good  and  evil, 
Thou  art  indeed  an  angel  and  a  devil; 
We  see  thee,  like  an  angel,  doing  good, 
And,  like  a  devil,  stain 'd  with  human  blood; 


444  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

One  day  we  see  thee,  with  a  joy,  impart 
Relief  to  sorrow's  suff'ring,  breaking  heart; 
The  next  behold  thee  with  a  reeking  blade, 
Plunged  in  the  heart  of  harmless  man  or  maid. 

This  pu,rse  reminds  me  of  the  groveling  mole 
Digging  in  earth,  as  men  for  money  stroll; 
And,  ah!  how  blind  that  money  too  makes  man! 
Blind  as  the  mole,  whose  skin  mine  eyes  now  scan; 
Oh!  not  more  blind  the  mole,  nor  slick  his  skin, 
Than  money  now  makes  man,  in  every  sin; 
Mark  him  in  trade,  in  argument,  a  lie; 
Ay,  catch  him  in  the  latter,  and  you'll  sigh, 
To  see  how  slick  and  slippery  he'll  grow, 
Not  ev'n  the  eel  more  somersets  can  throw. 

But,  Doctor,  you,  like  many  in  our  day, 
Have  made  one  grand  mistake,  as  Frenchmen  say: 
You've  sent  the  purse  without  the  money;  I 
Account  for  that,  however,  by  and  by; 
As  poets  have  no  money,  you  thought,  hence, 
The  purse  was  all  in  all,  without  the  pence. 
But  there's  another  grand  mistake — 111  pin  it, 
You've  sent  a  case  with  no  spectacles  in  it; 
Alas!  without  the  eyes  to  see,  I  must 
Remain  as  blind  as  any  mole  in  dust: 
Ah!  could  we  give  but  eyes  to  every  friend, 
How  soon  would  manners,  mind,  and  morals  mend! 
Could  we  but  give  them  eyes  to  see  themselves, 
How  many  present  angels  would  be  elves! 
And  were  those  eyes  but  magnifying  glasses, 
How  many  great  men  would  sink  into  asses ! 
Could  we  but  give  men  eyes  to  see  their  actions, 
Virtues  would  change  to  vices,  feuds  and  factions; 
And  could  we  place  a  window  in  men's  hearts, 
The  Devil's  workshop,  where  are  taught  all  arts; 
What  wondrous  things  should  we  not  there  behold! 
"  Tis  false,"  cries  one,  "man  worships  God,  I'm  told — " 
Tis  true  my  friend,  but  then  that' god  is  gold; 
His  day-book  is  his  Bible,  and  his  main, 
His  mightiest  hope  and  faith,  is  earthly  gain. 
That  this  is  true,  dear  Doctor,  you  and  I 
Can  both,  from  long  experience,  testify; 
The  saddest  case  and  spectacles  I've  seen, 
Are  men  who  love  their  god  of  gold,  I  ween. 

Dear  Doctor,  for  these  presents  I  return 
My  heart,  in  which  the  warmest  friendships  burn; 
Never  before  did  it  love  gold,  but  now 
It  has  grown  purse-proud,  as  you  will  allow; 
And  of  all  spectacles  that  you  may  trace, 
You'll  find  none  higher  valued  than  my  case; 
I'll  keep  the  purse  in  mem'ry  of  the  rich, 
Invaluable,  and  cherished  friendship,  which 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  445 

I've  knpwn  from  thee;  and  hard  my  case  must  be, 

When  I  shall  cease  to  prize  the  case  from  thee. 

I  wish  you  all  the  pleasure  life  can  give, 

With  length  of  days — in  short,  that  you  may  live 

Till  children,  born  in   your  old  age,  shall  be 

Fourscore  and  ten — may  wealth  and  luxury, 

A  full  purse  and  a  loaded  board,  be  thine, 

With  every  good  thing,  human  and  divine; 

May  every  joy,  to  mortals  known,  by  you 

Be  long  enjoyed — farewell,  my  friend. — Adieu! 


WRITTEN  ON  A  TOMBSTONE  OVER  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

BENEATH  this  tomb  in  silent  sleep, 

The  years  of  youth  devoted  dwell, 
Pale  pity's  eyes  here  widow 'd  weep, 

And  anxious  hearts  of  sorrow  swell. 

The  tearful  Muse  unknown  must  mourn, 

A  fairer  flow'r  is  seldom  seen, 
Than  this  enclosed  in  beauty's  bourne, 

Bit  by  the  blast  of  cold  winds  keen. 

Fair  faded  flow'r  of  richness  rare, 
Thy  youthful  years  of  fame  are  flown; 

Yet  you  shall  'scape  and  flourish  fair, 

Where  frosts  ne'er  come  and  winters  are  unknown. 

The  stings  of  strife,  the  pangs  of  pain 

No  more  shall  mantle  in  thy  mind; 
The  boiling  blood,  the  burning  brain, 

Have  left  all  human  hopes  behind. 

To  heav'n's  high  house  not  made  by  man, 

Thy  soul  serenely  wing'd  its  way, 
The  glorious  gifts  of  God  to  scan, 

And  angels  lit  thy  darksome  day. 

Sleep,  sweet  Belinda  sleep  secure, 
We  watch  and  weep  thee  o'er  thy  tomb, 

Sleep  still  sweet  one,  soon  sorrow  sure 
Shall  shine  in  joy  and  beauty  bloom. 


e 


SHE  was  as  fair  as  yonder  silver  moon, 
That  walks  the  sky  in  cloudless  majesty, 
Without  a  spot  to  stain  her. 

1  STATED  in  my  address  to  my  friend,  Dr.  Dor- 
[sey,  that  while  walking  the  street  with  a  friend,  I 
observed  a  muzzled  dog  eying  a  bone,  which 
•he  approached  and  endeavored  in  vain  to  taste. 
(I  stated  also,  that,  in  contemplating  the  scene,  I 
'could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  tears.  Now, 
I  presume  that  the  reader  understood  me  in  a 
ludicrous  sense,  and  laughed  at  the  idea,  under 
the  supposition  that  it  was  my  intention  to  make 
him  laugh.  Alas!  I  must  confess  that  it  was 
laughable,  I  mean  the  mere  idea  of  my  bursting 
into  tears,  at  seeing  a  muzzled  dog  eying  and 
longing  for  a  bone,  which  he  could  not  enjoy ; 
but  the  scene  reminded  me  strongly  of  an  un- 
happy page  in  the  history  of  human  life — of 
events  which  can  never  be  erased  from  memory, 
of  the  fate  of  one  of  the  loveliest  creatures  on  whom  God,  in  his 
infinite  goodness,  ever  bestowed  the  charms  of  beauty.  Listen 
gentle  reader,  to  a  tale  of  retrospection;  for  it  is  an  "  ower  true 
tale," — it  is  a  plain,  unvarnished  tale;  but  it  is  one  of  tenderness 
and  tears.  The  subject  of  it  now  sleeps  in  the  silent  grave,  which 
was  covered  with  the  wild  flowers  of  summer  the  last  time  I  trod 
the  hallowed  precincts  of  the  home  of  my  heart,  that  word  so  dear 
to  the  heart  of  every  Delawarian. 

I  love  every  thing  that  belongs  to  Delaware.  When  I  wander 
away  for  years,  memory  continually  dwells  upon  the  happy  homes 
and  faces  of  Delaware,  and  in  my  dreams  I  invariably  fancy  that 
I  am  musing  in  the  woodlands;  roaming  the  flowery  fields  or 
wandering  on  the  banks  of  the  Brandy  wine,  or  some  other  roman- 
tic stream  of  my  own  dear  little  Delaware.  Even  in  my  dreams 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  447 

do  I  revisit  the  land  of  my  birth,  and  my  spirit  mingles  with  the 
bright-eyed  beauties  of  Delaware,  while  I  drink  poetic  inspiration 
from  their  love-mantled  lips.  Yes,  when  long  exiled  from  my 
native  State,  I  have  loved  even  a  dog,  though  a  stranger  to  me, 
when  I  discovered  he  was  from  Delaware.  This  feeling,  I  believe, 
is  implanted  in  the  heart  of  every  Delawarian.  It  is  not  peculiar 
to  me,  for  in  all  my  wanderings  I  have  never  heard  a  Delawarian 
breathe  a  word  derogatory  to  his  native  State.  Proud  of  it,  they 
have  clung  to  each  other,  cherished  each  other,  and  defended  each 
other.  I  mention  this  because  the  subject  of  this  story  was  a  De- 
lawarian; and,  as  I  said  before,  a  lovelier  piece  of  mortality  never 
bloomed  or  was  blasted.  But  to  the  story. 

Emily,  for  I  shall  call  her  by  no  other  name,  was  an  orphan  girl, 
both  of  her  parents  having  been  swept  off  during  the  prevalence 
of  the  typhus  fever,  in  a  southern  section  of  Delaware.  Her 
father  had  been  considered  very  wealthy,  for  he  was  engaged  in 
very  extensive  business,  and  of  course  Emily  was  left  an  heiress. 
She  was  sent  to  Wilmington  to  be  educated,  or  rather  to  finish  her 
education;  for  she  was  almost  at  that  charming,  and  to  me,  most 
fascinating  age,  when  young  ladies  in  this  State  enter  society. 

Poor  Emily!  I  knew  her  well  from  her  cradle  to  her  coffin ;  from 
her  birth  to  her  burial;  and  truly  can  I  say,  that  she  possessed  the 
greatest  precocity  of  genius  that  I  ever  observed  in  any  child  of 
her  sex,  and  what  is  not  always  the  case,  that  precocious  genius 
followed  her  to  womanhood.  She  was  a  woman,  as  well  as  a 
child,  of  talent;  but  like  all  persons  of  genius;  of  superior  mind; 
she  was  erratic,  eccentric,  strange  and  peculiar  in  manner.  She 
had  her  own  notions  of  every  thing;  and,  like  all  persons  of  su- 
perior mind,  she  did  not  possess  that  very  useful  requisite,  com- 
mon sense,  that  sense  which  teaches  us  the  value  of  the  ordi- 
nary things  of  life,  and  how  to  use  those  things  to  the  best 
advantage. 

Emily  lived  in  a  world  of  her  own — a  world  of  imagination,  for 
she  was  devoted  to  the  "tuneful  Nine."  Common  sense  had 
never  taught  her  how  to  conduct  herself  in  this  lower  world.  She 
had  no  judgment  of  mankind  and  every  day  concerns — she  knew 
not  the  hollow-heartedness  of  the  world,  and  the  deceitfulness  of 
man.  With  all  the  wealth  and  glory  of  her  intellect,  she  had 
never  learned  that  useful  lesson,  that  man,  when  unrestrained  by 
the  stern  law  of  virtue,  is,  or  may  be,  a  villain.  She  knew  him 
only  by  his  ostentatious  exterior,  without  being  aware  how  despe- 
rately deceitful  he  is. 


448  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

At  the  close  of  Emily's  first  term  at  school,  she  left  Wilmington, 
in  the  mail-stage,  to  return  home,  in  company  with  a  young  lad, 
who  had  been  sent  to  accompany  her.  There  were  no  other  pas- 
sengers, save  a  young  man,  who  sat  silent  and  absorbed,  with  an 
occasional  glance  at  Emily,  whose  transcendent  beauty  was  an 
object  as  far  removed  from  him,  as  was  the  bone  from  the  dog. 
Notmore  did  the  dog  long  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of  the  bone,  than 
did  he,  whose  name  was  Henry  Freeland,  to  become  acquainted 
with  the  beautiful  being  before  him.  But,  ah!  he  was  muzzled. 
He  revolved  in  his  mind  every  possible  expedient  by  which  he 
could  scrape  an  acquaintance,  but  all  in  vain.  He  dared  not 
speak  to  her  without  some  form  of  introduction,  but  how  to  obtain 
that  introduction  he  could  not  imagine.  He  endeavored  to  draw 
the  young  lad  into  conversation,  but  there  again  he  was  muzzled — 
the  dog  longing  for  the  bone. 

Again  and  again  the  stage  stopped,  but  no  opportunity  occurred 
by  which  Henry  could  obtain  an  introduction  to  Emily.  Still 
more  anxiously  did  he  gaze  upon  her  beauty,  every  hour,  for  he 
saw  the  marks  of  intellectual  superiority  engraven  on  every  line- 
ament of  her  lovely  face. 

At  length  he  made  a  desperate  resolve  to  speak  to  her,  remem- 
bering the  old  saying,  that  "a  faint  heart  never  won  a  fair  lady." 
He  turned  upon  his  seat,  rubbed  his  hands,  looked  out  of  the  stage 
window,  and  then  looked  in  again  at  the  lady ;  but  still  the  words 
stuck  in  his  throat,  but  all  to  no  purpose ;  his  lips  refused  to  utter 
them. 

It  was  not  till  the  stage  arrived  at  Smyrna,  that  I  entered  the 
vehicle,  and  recognized  the  beautiful,  the  accomplished  Emily.  I 
observed  something  peculiar  in  the  manner  of  the  young  man  in 
the  stage,  for  no  sooner  did  he  discover  that  I  was  familiar  with 
Emily,  than  he  seemed  perfectly  restless,  and  I  saw  that  he  longed 
for  my  acquaintance.  The  truth  was,  he  was  a  perfect  picture  of 
the  dog  longing  for  the  bone. 

More  than  an  hour  elapsed,  ere  Henry  managed  to  scrape  an 
acquaintance  with  me,  and  through  me,  with  Emily.  She  treated 
him  with  politeness,  but  with  reserve,  as  she  did  not  yet  know  who 
or  what  he  was,  save  only  his  name.  We  both  discovered,  that  he 
was  a  man  of  education,  and  that  his  manners  were  refined,  with 
a  certain  peculiarity,  a  je  ne  scais  quoi,  as  the  French  call  it, 
which  in  our  language  cannot  be  described,  but  which  is  calcu- 
lated to  charm  and  enchain  the  heart  of  woman.  There  are  few 
men  who  possess,  in  an  eminent  degree,  the  peculiarity,  1  speak 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  449 

of;  but  I  have  invariably  observed  that  he  who  is  the  happy  pos- 
sessor of  that  peculiar  manner,  carries  with  him,  wherever  he 
goes,  a  key  to  the  female  heart.  No  difference  how  aristocratic ; 
no  difference  how  elevated  the  lady  may  be  in  society;  no  differ- 
ence how  wealthy,  how  talented,  how  diffident  or  reserved;  if  he 
is  ever  permitted  to  enter  the  sanctuary  of  her  society;  if  he  is 
ever  permitted  to  bow  before  her  beauty,  and  breathe  into  her  ear 
the  hallowed  language  of  love,  she  will  yield  up  her  heart  without 
a  struggle,  and  sigh  upon  his  bosom  the  vow  of  undying  affection. 

There  is  another  class  of  men,  who  -have  no  power  over  the 
heart  of  woman.  They  may  have  been  the  favorites  of  nature  in 
regard  to  her  gifts  both  of  beauty  and  talents;  they  may  possess 
every  external  accomplishment,  but  not  having  the  peculiar  art  or 
manner  spoken  of,  they  are  powerless  in  the  dominions  of  love; 
they  cannot  win  the  intoxicating  smiles  of  woman.  They  may, 
with  the  wand  of  genius,  become  the  grand  high-priests  of 
Nature ;  they  may,  on  the  sublime  wings  of  thought,  traverse  the 
regions  of  space;  measure  worlds;  and  survey  suns  and  systems; 
but  they  cannot  measure,  fathom,  or  fascinate  that  mighty  and 
mysterious  little  world  which  beats  in  the  bosom  of  woman;  and 
yet,  how  strange !  that  little  world  rules  and  regulates  the  world  at 
large  that  worships  it.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  was  an  example  of  what 
I  mean ;  though  he  was,  perhaps,  the  greatest  philosopher  England 
ever  produced,  he  was  utterly  powerless  in  the  presence  of  woman. 

But  to  resume.  Henry  used  all  his  powers  to  win  from  Emily 
that  freedom  of  manner  which  he  wished,  and  having  that  pecu- 
liar power,  of  which  I  spoke,  in  an  eminent  degree,  every  glance 
of  his  full,  dark  melting  eye  spoke  volumes  to  the  heart  of  Emily, 
and  before  we  arrived  at  the  place  of  our  destination,  that  heart 
was  almost  his,  without  her  being  aware  of  the  fact.  Often,  during 
our  ride,  did  I  detect  the  eyes  of  Henry  in  deep  conversation  with 
those  of  Emily.  Though  not  a  word  was  spoken;  though  not  a 
whisper  stole  upon  the  solitude  of  the  evening,  when  the  fiery 
chariot  of  the  sun  had  descended  behind  the  far  off  woodlands  of 
western  Delaware,  and  the  beautiful  moon  came  forth  like  a  bride 
in  her  beauty;  yet  those  eyes  conversed  in  a  language  as  intelli-, 
gible  to  the  heart,  as  any  that  ever  fell  in  thunder  on  the  ear. 

Alas!  how  well  did  I  read  the  gradually  growing  interest  which 
was  springing  up  in  the  heart  of  poor  Emily !  Plainer  and 
plainer  could  I  read  the  fact,  that  she  had  met  a  man  whose  fas- 
cinating tongue  and  winning  manners  were  destined  to  sway  her 
soul  for  good  or  for  evil.  Oh!  could  we  but  look  through  the 
57 


450  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

telescope  of  time,  and  see  the  developments  of  the  destiny  that 
awaits  us,  how^often  would  we  start  in  terror  ?  Could  Emily  have 
looked  into  the  future,  she  would  have  fled  from  the  bewitching 
influence  of  that  man,  as  the  bewildered  bird  flies  when  released 
from  the  fascinating  eye  of  the  serpent.  How  often,  since  that 
hour,  have  I  wandered  to  the  church-yard  where  she  slumbers ; 
and,  while  bending  over  her  tomb  and  musing  upon  the  happy  days 
gone  by,  when  I  beheld  her  in  the  bloom  of  her  beauty,  have  I 
shed  the  tears  of  unfeigned  sorrow  and  regret  that  one  so  lovely, — 
that  one  constituted  by  nature  to  be  happy, — that  one  who  pos- 
sessed all  the  requisites  to  render  others  happy,  should  have  been 
doomed  to  taste  the  bitter  cup;  aye,  that  bitterest  of  all  cups,  the 
cup  of  unhappy  wedded  life. 

But  I  must  not  anticipate,  for  I  am  writing  no  fiction;  I  am 
recording  the  real  history  of  one  of  the  most  charming,  and  at  the 
same  time  one  of  the  most  unhappy  of  her  sex.  Henry  Freeland 
was  at  heart  a  heartless  man.  Money  was  the  god  of  his  idolatry, 
and  truly  was  his  day-book  his  Bible.  He  admired  a  beautiful 
lady,  as  he  admired  a  splendid  piece  of  painting  or  sculpture  by 
one  of  the  old  masters.  He  had  just  returned  from  Italy,  whither 
he  had  been  to  lounge  and  enjoy  himself  in  the  galleries  of  art. 
He  worshiped  a  lady,  too,  who  possessed  superior  mind;  but  in 
that  worship  there  was  none  of  that  deep  devoted  feeling  which 
springs  from  the  heart,  and  which,  in  common  parlance,  we  call 
love.  He  bowed  down  before  Emily  the  knee  of  adoration;  but 
it  was  of  that  heartless  character  which  is  felt  by  the  Hindoo, 
when  he  bends  before  his  senseless  image. 

The  truth  was,  Emily's  money  was  the  bone  for  which  Henry 
longed ;  for  he  was  scattering  the  last  remnant  of  the  estate  which 
his  father,  formerly  a  merchant  of  New  York,  had  left  him.  He 
had  spent  three  thousand  dollars  in  taking  the  tour  of  Europe ; 
fire  thousand  in  fashionable  dissipation,  and  had  been  living  ex- 
tremely fast  on  the  remaining  two,  of  the  ten  thousand  he  had  in- 
herited. .  Of  course,  he  could  not  but  be  near  the  last  sixpence, 
and  looked  with  an  eager  eye  on  the  bank  stock,  as  well  as  the 
beauty  of  Emily.  Poor  girl,  her  heart  was  full  of  gentleness  and 
love,  and,  by  his  winning  ways,  had  been  taught,  ere  six  months 
of  acquaintanceship  expired,  to  love  him  with  all  her  heart — yea, 
with  all  that  singleness  of  devotion  which  truly  belongs  to  the 
pure  soul  of  holy,  heavenly,  virtuous  woman. 

Jt  has  ever  seemed  to  me,  without  subscribing  to  the  doctrine 
of  predestination,  that  some  persons  are  destined  to  an  unhappy 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  451 

lot.  Though  a  beautiful  and  brilliant  prospect  may  be  before  them, 
and  the  sun  may  shine  upon  them,  and  their  paths  may  be  adorned 
with  flowers,  yet  it  is  all  deceitful;  the  dark  storm  of  adversity  is 
just  ready  to  burst  upon  and  overwhelm  them  in  one  long  night  of 
despair. 

So  it  was  with  Emily.  Every  thing  was  bright  before  her,  and 
she  looked  forward  to  long  years  of  happiness.  She  had  met  and 
loved  a  handsome,  and,  what  she  prized  more,  a  very  talented  man, 
whom  she  expected  to  marry;  for  he  was  a  suitor  for  her  hand; 
and,  knowing  that  her  own  fortune  was  sufficient,  she  asked  and 
wished  no  more  to  make  her  happy.  The  prospect,  indeed,  was 
a  bright  one.  But,  alas !  she  knew  not  the  grovelling  motive  of 
Henry — she  knew  not  the  story  of  the  muzzled  dog  and  the  bone; 
but  she  was  destined  to  know  them. 

It  is  a  fact,  that  woman  more  generally  appreciates  the  sterling, 
inherent  qualities  of  man,  than  man  does  those  of  woman.  She 
more  frequently  loves  a  man  for  his  sterling,  inherent  qualities, 
than  man  does  woman;  for  he  is  more  attracted  by  extraneous 
qualities.  Beauty,  money,  aristocratic  birth,  and  so  forth,  are  the 
means  to  catch  him. 

Emily's  regard  for  Henry  was  founded  mostly  on  his  superior 
mind.  His  manners,  as  I  said  before,  were  particularly  captivat- 
ing. His  conversational  powers  were  great,  and  for  hours  they 
would  sit  in  close  debate  on  the  deep  abstractions  of  science. 
Indeed  I  may  say  with  truth,  that  Henry  was  the  most  fluent  and 
brilliant  in  conversation  of  any  young  man  I  ever  met  with,  with 
the  single  exception  of  James  Clayton,  brother  of  John  M.  Clay- 
ton, of  Delaware.  Henry  was  not  artificial ;  he  did  not  skim  the 
surface  of  things;  but  "drank  deep  of  the  Pierian  spring." 

But  I  must  hasten  on  the  conclusion  of  this  tragic  and  true  story. 
Henry  had  wooed  and  won  the  fair  Emily.  His  basilisk  eye  was 
on  the  bone  before  him ;  he  was  longing  to  finger  the  bank  stock 
and  cash,  and  had  asked  the  hand  of  Emily.  She  pondered  on 
the  important  matter  long,  and  appealed  to  her  bosom  friend, 

Sarah  A ,  who  advised  her  not  to  be  in  haste,  but  to  study  the 

character,  the  disposition  of  Henry,  before  she  gave  herself  to  a 
comparative  stranger.  She  had,  with  the  single-heartedness  of 
woman,  devoid  of  interested  money-loving  selfishness,  never  en- 
quired into  the  finances  of  Henry;  for  she  cared  not  whether  he 
possessed  a  penny  or  not;  but  for  her,  as  well  as  his  happiness, 
she  was  anxious,  and  told  him  that  it  was  her  romantic  notion  to 
delay  her  answer  until  the  expiration  of  three  months. 


452  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MlLFORD    BARD. 

This  to  Henry  was  severe;  for  he  was  thereby  muzzled,  and 
knew  that  he  would  cast  many  an  anxious  eye  on  the  bone,  ere 
that  period  should  elapse.  But  there  was  no  alternative;  for 
Emily  was  resolute,  by  the  advice  of  Sarah,  a  young  lady  whom 
her  father  had  rescued  from  a  burning  house  when  both  father  and 
mother  perished,  leaving  her  an  orphan  alone  in  the  world.  Emily 
loved  her  as  dearly  as  if  she  had  been  her  sister,  and  Sarah,  being 
older  than  herself,  acted  as  a  female  Mentor.  Her  advice  was 
always  sound  and  judicious,  and  Emily  followed  or  practised  it, 
with  that  confidence  a  child  feels  in  the  advice  of  a  parent.  They 
were  both  orphans,  alone  in  the  world,  and  they  leaned  upon  arid 
loved  each  other,  with  "a.  devotion  that  can  never  be  known  to 
those  who  are  placed  in  different  circumstances,  and  are  sur- 
rounded by  numerous  relatives.  Sarah  felt  that  she  owed  a  debt 
of  gratitude;  for  she  had  not  only  been  reared  in  orphanage  on 
the  bounty  of  Emily's  father,  but  she  was  indebted  for  subsistence 
to  the  bounty  of  the  daughter.  She  was  a  small  girl,  when  her 
father's  house  was  burnt;  but  she  remembered  the  terrific  scene, 
and  it  had  given  a  melancholy  cast  to  her  countenance,  and  a 
gravity  to  her  manner,  which  impressed  every  one  who  approach- 
ed her. 

The  three  months,  which  muzzled  Henry  and  kept  him  from 
the  bone  which  he  so  much  desired,  were  slowly  rolling  away. 
Henry's  funds  were  getting  in  the  wane.  If  he  should  miss  the 
bone,  he  saw  no  alternative  but  to  apply  for  a  clerkship  in  a  store, 
or  the  place  of  a  teacher  in  the  Academy. 

Henry  felt,  in  his  heart,  that  if  Emily  had  been  a  poor  girl,  or 
that  if  she  had  been  but  moderately  favored  with  fortune,  he  would 
never  have  been  a  suitor  for  her  hand.  He  knew  that  she  was 
beautiful;  that  she  was  lovely;  that  she  was  amiable,  gentle,  and 
affectionate,  beyond  measure;  but  he  also  felt,  at  the  same  time, 
that  he  was  heartless  and  sordid.  Like  the  muzzled  dog,  he  longed 
for  the  meat  on  the  bone,  without  having  any  regard  for  the  bone 
itself.  He  knew  that  he  was  a  man  of  talent,  and  he  was  proud 
to  show  his  power  in  winning  the  affection  of  lovely  woman ;  but 
it  was  a  mean,  a  heartless  triumph.  He  knew  not  that  noble  love, 
which  springs  from  sympathy,  from  communion  of  soul — that  love 
which  Shakspeare  makes  Othello  so  beautifully  allude  to,  as  the 
offspring  of  the  communion  of  two  hearts — 

"She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed. 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them." 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  453 

Henry,  like  many  other  gay  Lotharios,  knew  nothing  of  that 
high  and  holy  love  which  so  elevates  man  above  the  brute,  and 
allies  him  to  his  Maker — no,  his  was  only  the  ambition  of  love. 
He  knew  nothing  of  the  anguish  of  a  heart  whose  affections  have 
been  trampled  upon.  The  idea  of  a  broken  heart,  and  blighted 
love,  was  something  he  could  not  realize. 

Often  did  Emily  consult  her  friend  on  the  subject  of  the  proposed 
union.  Sarah  was  alone  solicitous  for  the  happiness  of  her  friend 
and  benefactor;  she  waived  every  selfish  consideration,  and  gave 
her  such  advice  as  she  would  have  dictated  to  herself  under  similar 
circumstances. 

The  three  months  had  nearly  elapsed,  and  Henry,  having 
(designedly)  conducted  himself  in  a  very  upright  and  amiable 
manner,  his  society  having  been  courted  by  the  most  refined  and 
respectable  people  in  the  town,  Sarah  advised  Emily  to  give  her 
consent  in  marriage,  as  she,  as  well  as  all  the  citizens,  desired  to 
see  her  happily  married. 

In  small  towns  the  people  all  know  one  another,  and  are  joined 
together  by  one  common  tie  of  affection.  They  are  like  one 
family;  if  one  is  happy,  or  in  distress,  all  feel  it,  more  or  less,  in 
sympathy.  Every  one,  large  and  small,  rich  and  poor,  loved  Emily, 
and  ardently  desired  her  happiness. 

But  I  must  hasten  on.  Emily  and  Henry  were  married  with 
great  pomp,  during  the  absence  of  her  guardian,  whom  she 
dreaded;  for  she  had  had  a  proposal  of  marriage  from  him,  though 
he  was  old  enough  to  be  her  father.  Henry  was  delighted,  for  he 
imagined  that  the  bone  was  almost  within  his  reach.  Emily  was 
in  a  constant  state  of  ecstasy.  The  silvery  sound  of  her  voice 
and  her  merry  laugh  could  be  heard  through  the  halls  of  her  happy 
home,  from  morning  till  night;  but  a  change  was  soon  to  come. 

Mr.  Melville,  the  guardian  of  Emily,  returned  in  a  few  weeks 
from  a  travel  to  the  north,  and,  at  the  moment  when  Henry  was 
eager  to  clutch  the  golden  bone,  a  damper  was  thrown  upon  him, 
by  the  astounding  intelligence  that  he  could  never  touch  a  penny 
of  Emily's  fortune.  Her  father  was  a  very  eccentric  man,  and  left 
it  in  such  a  way,  that  if  she  ever  married,  she  was  to  loose  a  great 
portion,  and  to  have  the  interest  only  of  the  other. 

The  tone  of  Henry  instantly  changed,  when  he  found  that  the 
fortune  had  dwindled  to  a  bare  support;  and  Emily  was  thunder- 
struck, though  she  did  not  believe  for  a  moment  the  affection  of 
Henry  could  be  so  easily  riven  from  her.  Alas !  she  knew  not  the 
deceitfulness  of  man,  particularly  when  the  god  he  worships  is 


454  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARU. 

made  of  gold.  A  coolness  was  instantly  observable,  in  his  manners, 
and  she,  unluckily,  overheard  him  say,  that  he  "had  married  a 
beggar  at  last."  Restraining  her  feelings,  she  fled  to  her  room, 
and,  throwing  herself  on  a  bed,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  long 
and  bitterly.  Like  Calypso,  when  she  lost  Ulysses,  she  could  not 
be  consoled,  but  gave  herself  up  to  the  silent,  but  most  extravagant 
expressions  of  despair.  Still  she  hoped,  after  the  first  burst  of 
grief  was  over,  that  he  would  change ;  nor  could  she  believe  that 
a  life  of  wretchedness  was  before  her. 

The  human  muzzled  dog  now  showed  his  madness,  by  diving 
into  the  very  depths  of  dissipation,  to  which  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed, and  the  community  was  surprised;  for  he  had  even  joined 
the  church,  while  addressing  Emily. 

Oh !  ye  fair  damsels  of  Delaware,  ye  dark-eyed  beauties,  beware 
of  the  dissipated  man.  There  is  a  hell  in  the  bowl,  for  all  those 
who  taste  it,  and  no  marriage  can  be  happy  where  its  influence  is 
known. 

Henry  grew  worse  daily,  and  seemed  to  vend  his  spite  at  poor 
Emily  alone,  because  he  had  been  disappointed  in  obtaining  the 
fortune  for  which  he  had  longed.  No  more  wretched  was  Emily 
than  the  faithful  and  grateful  Sarah.  Her  eyes  were  ever  red  with 
weeping.  The  treatment  Emily  received  grew  worse  and  worse, 
until  it  became  most  cruel.  But  still,  for  a  long  time,  she  bore  it 
without  complaining,  with  more  than  woman's  fortitude;  till  at 
length,  by  one  act,  he  reached  her  very  heart,  and  inflicted  the 
severest  wound  that  woman  is  ever  called  or  to  bear.  A  wife  can 
bear  all  but  that.  When  she  beholds  her  husband  rudely  trampling 
on  her  affections,  she  yields  herself  to  despair;  for  it  is  beyond 
her  endurance  to  behold  another,  and  an  unworthy  one,  occupying 
the  throne  in  her  husband's  heart,  from  which  she  has  been  rudely 
driven  into  exile. 

Suddenly  he  seemed  somewhat  changed,  though  still  a  brute. 
So  great  was  the  contrast  that  Emily  was  comparatively  happy; 
her  pale  cheek  seemed  to  revive,  but  the  calm  was  deceitful;  her 
sorrows  were  just  beginning,  and  were  destined  to  be  blended 
with  misfortune. 

Emily  and  Sarah  had  retired  to  the  closet  to  rejoice  over  the 
change,  and  the  prospect  of  happier  days.  •  The  closet  was  full  of 
rubbish,  among  which  was  an  old  rusty  pistol,  which  had  long 
been  observed  lying  in  one  corner,  and  which  had  often  been 
kicked  from  side  to  side.  So  exhilarated  was  Emily,  at  the  pros- 
pect of  the  return  of  her  husband's  love,  that  she  picked  up  the 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  455 

old  pistol  and  presented  it  at  Sarah,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  with 
a  smile — "Take  care,  my  dear,  or  I  shall  shoot  you." 

"Shoot  away,"  returned  the  affectionate  Sarah,  "for  I  would  be 
willing  to  be  shot  to  see  you  happy,  and — " 

Ere  the  sentence  was  finished,  the  pistol  exploded,  and  poor 
Sarah  fell  dead  at  the  feet  of  her  friend.  Scarcely  did  Sarah  fall, 
ere  a  wild  scream  broke  from  the  lips  of  Emily,  and  she  swooned. 
No  one  came. 

When  she  recovered,  she  rushed  below  in  a  state  bordering  on 
mental  derangement.  Henry  was  in  a  profound  sleep  on  the  sofa, 
and,  being  awakened  by  her  cries,  commenced  abusing  her,  as 
was  his  custom.  It  was  soon  discovered  what  had  happened,  and 
it  was  piteous  to  hear  the  lamentations  of  the  unhappy  Emily. 
The  pistol,  it  was  supposed,  had  been  loaded  for  years,  and,  though 
often  handled  and  thrown  about,  had  never  exploded  until  that 
unfortunate  moment. 

Henry  now  seemed  or  feigned  to  look  upon  her  with  horror; 

and  that  night  she  was  seized  with  fever  on  the  brain,  and,  ere 

the  sun  went  down  on  the  morrow,  her  once  bright  and  beautiful 

eyes  were  closed  for  ever  in  death.     There  together  lay  the  two 

friends,  and   together  they   were  conveyed   to  the   same   grave. 

When  standing  beside  the  last  resting  place  of  the  once  lovely 

Emily,  and,  hearing  the  earth   falling  upon  her  coffin,  and  the 

words  pronounced  by  the  minister,  "dust  to  dust,"  my  tears  flowed 

freely;  for  I  had  passed  many  a  happy  hpur  in  the  society  of  Emily, 

in  the  bright  days  of  her  existence,  ere  the  blightening  influence 

of  sorrow  fell  upon  her  amiable  and  generous  heart.     I  had  known 

her  from  childhood,  in  the  southern  part  of  Delaware,  and  I  knew 

her  while  at  the  Female  Institute  of  this  city.     A  lovelier  creature 

never  breathed,  or  bloomed,  or  was  blasted.     And  now  I  never 

visit  my  mother  without  lingering,  in  the  morning  and  evening 

hours,  around  the  grave  of  the  unfortunate  Emily.     The  last  time 

I  visited  her  grave,  I  found  that  a  very  sweet,  pretty  little  girl,  a 

relative  of  the  unfortunate  beauty,  had  planted  a  number  of  vines 

and  flower  bushes  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  grave.     At  the 

first  glance,  my  eye  rested  on  a  twin  rose-bud.     It  reminded  me 

so  strongly  of  the  two  lovely  creatures  that  slept  below,  that  I 

could  not  refrain  from  tears;  for  often  had  I  seen  them,  hand  in 

hand,  in  childhood  or  girlhood,  going  to  school  together.     Two 

full-blown  roses,  blighted  by  a  storm,  would  have  been  a  fit  emblem 

of  their  after  destiny.     I  have  always  loved  that  little  girl  for  that 

touching  mark  of  her  tenderness;  for  the  love  of  flowers,  at  any 


456  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

time,  is  an  evidence  of  refinement  and  feeling;  but  thus  to  grace 
the  grave  of  one  beloved,  is  an  evidence,  not  only  of  refined 
feeling,  but  that  the  sympathizing  one  has  a  heart  worth  far  more 
than  all  the  "gold  and  diamonds  of  the  farthest  India."  1  admire 
talents;  I  reverence  superior  mind,  because  it  is  the  gift  of  God; 
but  of  all  things  on  this  earth,  I  love  most  a  generous,  affectionate, 
noble  heart  that  knows  not  the  meaning  of  the  word  selfishness. 
Such  a  heart  once  beat  in  the  bosom  of  the  poor,  unfortunate 
Emily;  and  such  a  heart  beats  now  in  the  bosom  of  the  little  girl 
who  planted  the  flowers  around  the  grave  of  her  ill-fated  relative. 
That  little  girl  is  now  receiving  her  education  in  the  most  distin- 
guished school  of  this  city.  I  frequently  meet  her  on  the  street, 
and  always  lift  my  hat  in  honor  to  her,  on  account  of  the  evidence 
she  has  shown  of  being  the  possessor  of  a  heart  beyond  all  price. 
She  is  no  longer  a  little  girl,  but  has  exchanged  her  girlhood  for 
the  fascinating  form  and  features  of  a  young  lady.  And  were  I, 
at  any  moment,  to  show  her  this  story,  or  recall  to  her  mind  the 
melancholy  fate  of  her  beautiful  but  unhappy  kinswoman,  her  tears 
would  flow  freely. 

And  now,  ye  lovely  ladies  of  Delaware,  let  me  warn  you  of  those 
muzzled  human  dogs,  who  are  ever  gazing,  with  a  longing  eye, 
on  the  bone  of  your  bank  stock  and  your  gold.  Kpep  them 
muzzled,  and  let  them  long  for  the  bone;  for  so  sure  as  they  pick 
it,  farewell  to  your  happiness.  I  have  now  related  a  melancholy 
story  of  a  beautiful  creature  •,  and  shonld  you,  in  future,  see  a 
muzzled  dog  on  the  street,  I  am  sure  you  will  think  of  the  ill-fated 
Emily,  and  the  muzzled  two-legged  dog,  who  was  the  cause  of 
sending  her,  in  all  her  bloom  and  beauty,  to  an  untimely  tomb. 


f  hm<0  tm  far  Cue. 


WHEN  Eve  from  Eden's  bliss  was  torn, 

And  by  the  sword  was  driven; 
Adam  soon  followed,  nor  did  he  mourn, 

For  where  she  was,  was  Heaven: 
Had  the  dread  angel  torn  apart 

This  far  too  guilty  pair; 
Then  would  have  sigh'd  his  mighty  heart, 

And  broke  in  dark  despair. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  457 


line*  on  tye  Imtjj  of  3&w.  Inn 

WIFE  of  Mr.  ELIHD  TALLEY,  of  Rrandywine,  and  daughter  of  the  late  WILLIAM  TWAD- 
DELL,  Esq.,  who  departed  from  this  world  of  care  on  the  9th  of  March,  1848,  in  the 
69th  year  of  her  age.  REQCIESCAT  IN  PACB.  Written  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  WM.  T. 
JEANDELL,  the  niece  of  the  deceased. 

OF  all  the  woes  in  life's  mysterious  race, 
That  man,  unhappy  man,  is  doom'd  to  trace, 

From  day  to  day; 

The  keenest,  the  severest  of  them  all, 
Is,  one  by  one,  to  see  our  loved  ones  fall, 
,  And  pass  away. 

Ah!  true  it  is,  like  flow'rs  our  friends  are  here, 
Like  flow'rs,  they  bloom,  and  die,  and  disappear, 

Nor  can  we  save: 

To-day  we  see  them  in  the  busy  crowd, 
To-morrow  in  the  coffin  and  the  shroud, 

And  gloomy  grave. 

Death  treads  upon  the  footsteps  of  our  years, 

Our  smiles  a  moment  changes  into  tears, 
,  But  keenest  grief 

*   .It  is  to  see  our  friends,  long  loved,  depart, 

And  feel  that  desolation  of  the  heart, 
That  loathes  relief. 

Ah!  yes,  it  is  a  bitter  thing  to  be 
Bereft  of  brother,  sister,  or  to  see 

A  father  fall; 

But  oh!  there  is  a  pang  which,  but  to  know, 
Hath  in  it  far  more  agonizing  woe> 

Than  one  or  all. 

It  is  to  see  a  much  loved  mother  die, 
And  gaze  upon  her  dim  and  dark'ning  eye, 

That  once  did  shine, 

Upon  affection's  soul,  with  beams  as  bright, 
As  blissful,  beautiful,  as  is  the  light 

Of  love  divine. 

To  feel  her  dying  grasp,  her  chilling  kiss, 
That  once  had  in  it  all  of  human  bliss, 

Without  relief; 

To  hear  her  dying  pray'r,  and  mark  her  breath, 
Struggling  in  the  last  agonies  of  death; 

Oh1   this  is  grief! 
58 


458  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BAUD. 

Methinks  I  see  the  dying  mother  now, 

The  cold,  dark  damp  of  death  is  on  her  brow, 

And  the  grave  yawns; 

Her  friends  have  come  to  close  her  dying  eye, 
And  bid  farewell  till,  in  yon  land  on  high, 

A  new  day  dawns. 

Methinks  I  see  her  weeping  children  stand 
Beside  her  dying  couch — her  trembling  hand 

Is  bathed  in  tears; 

With  agony  the  one,  affliction's  child, 
Wrings  his  imploring  hands,  with  accents  wild, 

Bewailing  fears. 

Ah!  well  may  he  in  sorrow  weep,  and  tell 
Of  his  keen  sufferings  in  that  last  farewell 

To  one  so  dear; 

For  who  in  his  affliction  now  will  prove, 
Like  her,  a  mother's  holy,  heavenly  love, 

And  truth  sincere? 

Well  may  her  husband,  children,  kindred  mourn 
Her  passage  to  that  sad  and  silent  bourne, 

From  whence  no  more 
She  shall  return;  for  they,  alas!  will  feel 
The  loss  of  her  deep  heart,  which  could  reveal 

Affection's  store. 

Weep  then,  0  weep,  ye  friends,  for  your  own  loss, 
But  not  for  her — beneath  the  sacred  Cross, 

She  shall  arise, 

On  angels'  wings,  to  that  sublime  abode, 
Where  dwells  in  glory  an  all  glorious  God, 

Beyond  the  skies. 

Prepare,  oh!  yes,  prepare  in  joy,  to  meet 
That  happy  mother,  in  her  blest  retreat; 

Where  grief,  nor  tears, 
Nor  sickness  enter;  but  where  all  is  joy, 
And  peace,  and  holy  love,  without  alloy, 

Thro'  endless  years. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  459 


OF  WILMINGTON,  DEL.,  FOR  HER  KINDNESS  WHILE  THE  BARD  WAS  SICK. 

CAN  I  forget  thee?  Oh!  no,  no, 

While  life  itself  remains; 
Thou  art  a  friend  to  man  in  woe, 

And  worthy  of  my  strains. 

I  love  thee,  as  a  brother's  heart 

Would  love  a  sister  dear; 
For  in  thy  kindness  is  no  art, 

While  from  thine  eye  a  tear 

Is  ever  ready  for  the  grief, 

Unhappy  mortals  feel; 
And  well  I  know  there  is  relief, 

In  all  thy  words  reveal. 

Oh!  if  all  men,  who  err,  could  know 

Kinds  words  as  soft  as  thine; 
How  small  indeed  would  be  their  woe, 

As  thou  can'st  witness  mine! 

I  had  a  sister  like  to  thee, 

In  form  and  face  and  heart; 
But  death  hath  taken  her  from  me  — 

That  sister  now  thou  art  ! 

And  while  upon  the  globe  I  stand, 

Thy  kindness  I  will  claim; 
For  when  I  grasp  thy  generous  hand, 

I  think  thou  art  the  same. 

Oh!  if  our  race  were  all  like  thee, 

So  gen'rous  and  so  just, 
How  small  the  sum  of  misery, 

To  those  who  kindly  trust! 

Tis  sweet  to  think  some  human  hearts 

Can  feel  for  others'  woes, 
And  gently  draw  the  poison  'd  darts, 

That  pieree  the  hearts  of  those 

Who  have  been  wretched  made,  by  trust 

Alas!  that  was  betray  'd; 
And  thou  I  know  art  truly  just, 

In  all  that  I  have  said. 


460  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

And  now  the  feelings  of  my  soul 

I  have  poured  out  to  thee, 
For  thou  hast  snatch 'd  me  from  the  bowl, 

And  renovated  me. 

. 
Where'er  thy  future  footsteps  stray, 

May  happiness  be  thine; 
And  when  thou  leav'st  this  world,  oh!  may 
Thy  blessings  be  divine. 

'  ,-    iM-w-fc  -/     • 


linos  a^m?0A  to  tmj  tptmg  ftwih  3fi~, 

To  his  amiable  Mother,  Sister  and  family,  who,  during  my  visit  to  Wilmington,  have  been 
to  me  all  that  a  brother,  mother  and  sister  could  be. 

DEAR  friends,  oh!  while  this  heart  shall  beat, 

I  never  can  forget  you; 
And  while  of  love  it  is  the  seat, 

I'll  bless  the  hour  I  met  you; 
Yea,  bless  you  with  my  latest  breath, 
In  the  last  lingering  gasp  of  death. 

Home  of  my  heart,  sweet  Delaware, 

1  love  thee  o'er  all  measure; 
That  thou  dost  such  kind  spirits  bear, 

Who  are  thy  richest  treasure; 
They  are  the  jewels  thou  dost  crave, 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave! 

When  persecution  pierced  my  soul 

With  solitary  sadness, 
And  drove  me  to  the  damning  bowl, 

With  fiendish  grudge  and  gladness; 
Dear  Delaware,  beloved  so  long, 
Thy  children  saved  the  son  of  song. 

And  shall  I  love  them  not  ?    Oh !  yes, 

I  know  no  feeling  other; 
My  talented  young  friend  I'll  bless — 

His  sister  and  his  mother; 
For  every  child  of  Delaware, 
Shall  this  warm  heart  a  fondness  bear. 


"SUUM  CUIQUE   TRIBUITO." 

HE  following  story  I  had  from  a  gentleman  of 
}vj2racity,  who' assured  me  that  it  was  "founded 
i  on  fact."  It  exemplifies  the  universal  disposi- 
Uion  of  mankind  to  retaliate,  be  the  cause  of  re- 
taliation what  it  may;  a  joke,  an  insult,  or  an 
injury.  Self-defence  and  retaliation  are  com- 
mon to  man,  and  not  only  to  man,  but  lo  all 
the  tribes  of  the  animal  creation.  The  meanest 
insect  if  oppressed,  will  turn  and  sting  the  op- 
pressor; and  hence  it  is  evident  that  the  spirit 
of  retaliation  is  inherent  in  the  animal  being 
implanted  in  it  by  the  Creator  for  a  wise  pur- 
pose, that  I  of  self-defence.  The  pugnacious 
spirit  of  man  I  believe  to  be  inherent,  though 
bravery  in  a  great  degree  is  an  acquired  quality; 
for  we  find  that  the  pugnacious  spirit  does  not 
belong  exclusively  to  man,  but  to  all  the  animal  creation.  Were 
the  disposition  to  fight  peculiar  to  man,  I  should  be  led  to  think 
it  originated  in  his  own  evil  disposition ;  but  we  find  that  it  is  not 
peculiar,  for  dogs  and  chickens,  like  men,  will  fight  unto  death. 

But  I  did  not  commence  with  the  view  of  writing  a  philosophic 
essay,  neither  was  it  my  intention  to  attempt  to  prove  that  God 
made  man  for  war;  though  I  have  been  led  into  some  reflections 
on  the  subject,  by  the  word  retaliation.  My  object  is  to  relate  the 
story  of  the  humming-bird's  nest. 

Some  time  since,  there  arrived  from  Ireland  a  man  by  the  name 
of  Paddy  Shane,  a  beautiful  bit  of  a  boy,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, and  much  of  a  wag  into  the  bargain.  Paddy  had  resided  in 
a  neighboring  city  a  few  months,  and  considered  himself  wise 
enough  in  a  knowledge  of  the  affairs  of  this  country  to  enlighten 
all  foreigners  just  arriving;  and  that  he  was  well  enough  acquaint- 


462  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

ed  with  the  why  and  wherefore  of  every  thing,  to  play  a  waggish 
prank  occasionally  on  a  "raw  'un;"  and  not  only  on  the  raw  ones 
of  swate  ould  Ireland,  but  on  any  unlucky  wight  from  any  other 
nation!  Paddy  was  notorious  for  having  seen  great  things.  He 
was  surprised  at  nothing  that  was  shown  him.  He  had  seen  far 
greater  things  in  the  ould  counthry,  and  even  the  childre  across 
the  wather  would'nt  be  astonished  at  the  wonders  in  Ameriky. 
On  being  shown  some  famous  huckleberries,  he  exclaimed, 
"Och!  noo,  and  by  my  sowl,  did  ye  niver  sa  the  plums  growin 
in  the  bogs  of  ould  Ireland  on  the  big  trees,  sure!  Ton  my  sowl, 
an  ye  niver  did  sa  the  like  iv  'em." 

"And  what  were  they  like,  Paddy?" 

"Like,  yer  honor?  Well  noo,  an  T  have  a  sowl  to  be  saved, 
they  were  like  niver  a  thing,  barrin  the  biggest  plums  ye  iver  did 
sa  at  all,  at  all." 

"But,  Paddy,  there  are  no  such  plums  as  these  in  Europe." 

"No  sich  plums  in  the  ould  counthry,  yer  honor?  An  ye  may 
well  say  that  same;  but  hevn't  I  sane  them  sure,  an  hevn't  I 
pulled  thim  meself  aff  the  vines  the  day?" 

"  Pulled  them  to-day  off  the  vines  in  Ireland !  how  is  that  Paddy  ? 
You  said,  too,  that  they  grew  on  large  trees. 

"Och!  botherashun  to  me  mimory  noo,  an  sure  warn't  it  me- 
self that  wur  jist  fancyin  myself  in  swate  ould  Ireland  the  day,  an 
its  thrue,  yer  honor,  meself  was  in  Ameriky." 

Upon  the  conclusion  of  this  wise  conclusion,  Paddy  Shane  gave 
one  of  his  inimitable  horse-laughs;  which,  at  a  moderate  compu- 
tation, might  be  heard  a  mile,  and  to  give  vent  to  which,  he  was 
under  the  necessity  of  opening  his  "  swate  little  jewel  of  a  mouth," 
as  he  called  it,  from  ear  to  ear.  That  laugh,  which  more  resem- 
bled a  sudden  clap  of  thunder  than  a  sound  proceeding  from 
human  lungs,  had  caused  more  than  one  horse  to  break  his  bridle. 

"Och!  the  dear  leetle  creatures!"  exclaimed  Paddy  Shane  one 
day  when  he  saw,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  a  parcel  of  bed-bugs 
in  the  cracks  and  crevices  of  a  bedstead.  "An  its  meself  sure 
that  niver  saw  silk-worms  cooltivated  afther  this  beautiful  way  at 
all,  at  all." 

"This  is  a  droll  way  of  cultivating  silk-worms,  Paddy." 

"And  its  yer  honor  may  well  say  that  same,  dogs  a  bit,  noo,  in 
the  ould  counthry,  but  they  hive  'em  until  the  young  varmints 
spin  the  sewin  silk  all  ready  for  the  needle  sure." 

"And  do  the  worms  twist  the  silk  in  your  country?" 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

"Twist  it,  yer  honor?  An  yer  honor  may  well  say  that  noo. 
And  ye  go  till  untwist  it,  it  'ill  twist  tighter  and  tighter,  until  dogs 
a  bit,  yer  honor,  it'll  niver  ontwist  at  all,  at  all." 

Paddy  Shane  brought  with  him,  from  the  "ould  counthry,  a  nate 
leetle  bit  o'  money  till  furnish  the  manes  o'  making  a  dacent  livin 
in  Ameriky."  Paddy  was  not  like  the  most  of  the  British  no- 
bility, who  boast  of  their  birth  and  found  their  greatness  on  the 
bones  of  their  buried  ancestors ;  neither  was  he  like  an  Irish  po- 
tato— for  the  best  part  of  him  was  not  under  ground.  He  sprung 
from  poor,  but  respectable  parentage,  and  possessed  that  birth- 
right of  a  true  Irishman,  an  open,  honest  heart,  free  from  all 
meanness  and  selfishness;  and  a  liberal,  generous  soul,  that  was 
ever  ready  to  enjoy  a  joke,  shed  a  tear  of  sympathy  over  another's 
sorrow,  and  to  share  the  last  hard-earned  shilling  with  a  fellow 
creature  in  distress.  I  like  a  whole  souled  son  of  the  Emerald 
isle;  for  the  most  accomplished,  the  most  perfect  gentleman  with 
whom  I  ever  conversed,  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  the  superlative, 
most  perfect — was  an  Irishman.  And  I  like  the  warm  souled  son 
of  ould  Scotia,  who  carries  his  heart  in  his  hand;  and  the  hot- 
headed, impetuous  Frenchman,  with  all  his  excess  of  etiquette, 
and  refinement  of  manners;  for  beneath  all  the  flourish  of  fancy 
and  the  furbelows  of  fashion,  beats  a  heart  alive  to  the  finer  feel- 
ings of  human  nature,  the  warm  impulses  of  affection,  and  the 
noble,  self-sacrificing  spirit  of  generosity.  But  no  more  of  na- 
tionality, for  our  country  has  truly  become  the  nursery  of  nations. 

I  merely  desire  to  give  the  reader  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  cha- 
racter of  Paddy  Shane,  and  I  have  said  no  little  in  his  favor  when 
I  assert,  that  his  day-book  was  not  his  Bible,  and  gold  was  not  his 
god.  He  was  a  good  churchman,  nevertheless;  for  in  the  lan- 
guage of  Yankeedom,  "he  did  those  things  he  had'nt  ought  to 
do,  and  left  undone  those  things  he  ought  to  have  done."  Though 
Paddy  Shane  never  indulged  in  the  usual  furor;  though  he  never 
strained  at  a  gate  and  swallowed  a  saw-mill,  yet  he  was  orthodox 
in  his  religion.  He  loved  a  joke,  when  it  was  even  at  his  own  ex- 
pense; but,  like  most  people,  he  loved  it  much  better  when  it  was 
at  the  expense  of  another.  But,  unlike  most  people,  he  could 
relish  a  joke  when  he  was  himself  the  butt  of  ridicule,  almost  as 
well  as  when  he  cracked  it  on  the  head  of  another. 

I  have  said  that  Patrick  brought  a  sum  of  money  with  him  from 
Ireland,  and  it  is  necessary  that  the  reader  now  should  know  what 
he  did  with  it.  He  bought  him  a  "nate  little  bit  of  a  vessel"  for 


464  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

the  coasting-trade,  of  which  he  became  captain,  and  in  which  he 
had  made  several  profitable  voyages,  at  the  time  of  which  I  write. 

In  the  neighborhood  of  Paddy  Shane's  domicil,  lived  a  French- 
man and  a  Dutchman,  both  of  whom,  like  Paddy,  had  been  in 
this  country  but  a  short  time.  Monsieur  Parley  Vous  Francois, 
the  Frenchman,  and  Mynheer  Van  Vonswitzenswizzle,  the 
Dutchman,  had  been  guilty  of  playing  several  pranks  at  the  ex- 
pense of  Paddy,  just  after  he  landed  on  these  shores,  when,  to 
use  his  own  language,  he  was  "a  green  bit  iv  a  boy,  an  he  warn't 
looken  what  they  wur  afthur  at  all,  at  all." 

One  of  the  pranks  consisted  in  selling  Paddy  a  large  lot  of  bed- 
bugs, telling  him  that  they  were  silk-worms  just  hatched,  which  he 
very  carefully  put  in  his  bedstead,  with  the  intention  of  "coolti- 
vating  the  beautiful  leetle  cratures."  Alas!  poor  Paddy  was 
almost  eaten  up  by  them ;  literally  bled  to  death. 

"Blood  and  thunder  take  ivery  one  iv  ye,"  he  exclaimed  a  few 
days  after,  when  he  met  the  two  wags,  "but  itsmeself  i'll  be  afther 
fixin  ye  for  this  mane  thrick  iv  ye,  ye  furriner  spalpeens,  ye.  Och  ! 
noo,'  an  ye  may  laugh  sure,  but  may  ivery  saint  forgit  Paddy 
Shane,  an  he  don't  make  ivery  one  iv  ye  be  afther  laughin  on  the 
wrong  side.  The  divil  take  Paddy  Shane,  an  he  don't  play  ye  a 
thrick  till  yer  heart's  content." 

Paddy  vowed  revenge  for  the  blood  and  sleepless  nights  he  had 
lost,  when  the  bed-bugs  were  "afthur  atin  him  up  sowl  and  body." 
Time  passed  on,  and  the  bed-bug  trick  was  forgotten  by  all  but 
Paddy;  as  well  as  a  trick  they  had  played  upon  him,  in  per- 
suading him  that  a  mud-machine  in  the  harbor  was  the  electro- 
magnetic telegraph;  and  on  going  on  board  of  which,  he  was 
knocked  overboard. 

"An  sure  it  was  meself,"  said  Paddy,  with  an  elongated,  dole- 
ful countenance,  "that  was  flounderin  in  the  mud,  and  thryin  to 
git  till  shore,  with  me  Sunday  suit  on.  Och!  bad  luck  to  ye, 
ivery  one  iv  ye,  ye  furriner  spalpeens;  the  back  iv  me  hand 
till  ye." 

Paddy  had  made  several  trips  along  the  Southern  coast,  and  at 
length  returned  with  a  great  curiosity,  which  he  had  purchased  at 
a  great  price.  He  disseminated  this  intelligence  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  excite  unbounded  curiosity  in  the  minds  of  the  French- 
man and  Dutchman,  and  Monsieur  Parley  Vous  was  particularly 
anxious  to  see  the  humming-bird's  nest;  neither  he,  nor  Mynheer 
Van  Vonswitzenswizzle,  suspecting  for  a  moment  that  Paddy  was 
designing  a  trick. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  465 

The  reader  is  aware,  I  presume,  that  there  is  a  very  venemous 
race  of  insects,  nearly  or  quite  as  large  as  the  wasp,  called  hor- 
nets, that  build  a  nest  sometimes  almost  as  large  as  a  bushel 
basket,  having  a  hole  on  one  side,  through  which  the  hornets  go 
in  and  out;  and  that  when  this  nest  is  disturbed,  the  enraged 
creatures  pour  out  in  a  swarm  to  avenge  the  injury ;  and  woe  to 
him  who  has  the  temerity  to  approach.  The  nest  is  usually  sus- 
pended from  the  limb  of  a  tree. 

Paddy  had  procured,  in  the  woods  of  Virginia,  one  of  these 
nests,  which  he  called  a  humming-bird's  nest,  and  expatiated 
largely  on  the  beauty  of  the  "swate  leetle  cratures."  The  hole 
in  the  side  of  the  nest  he  had  carefully  stopped,  declaring  that  if 
the  charming  little  birds  were  let  out  in  open  space  they  would 
fly  away ;  and  his  friends,  Monsieur  Parley  Vous  Francois  and 
Mynheer  Vonswitzenswizzle,  would  be  deprived  of  the  great 
pleasure  of  hearing  them  hum;  at  the  same  time  assuring  them 
that  nothing  ever  was  so  beautiful,  and  no  music  so  sweet,  as  that 
made  by  these  little  humming-birds. 

The  curiosity  of  Monsieur  and  Mynheer  rose  to  the  highest 
pitch.  They  examined  the  nest  with  a  curious  eye;  turned  it  from 
side  to  side ;  and  asked  many  questions  concerning  the  beautiful 
little  birds  that  hummed  so  sweetly;  to  all  of  which  Patrick  an- 
swered, in  such  a  manner  as  to  increase,  if  possible,  their  wonder, 
as  well  as  their  desire  to  see  them. 

"  Och!  noo,"  said  Patrick,  taking  up  the  nest,  "  an  its  yer  two 
selves,  perhaps,  'ud  like  till  see  the  dear  little  cratures  a  flyin 
about  the  cabin." 

"  Oui,  Monsieur  Patrick,"  returned  the  delighted  Frenchman, 
"  it  will  give  me  de  grand  satisfactiong  to  have  de  pleasair,  sair,  to 
see  de  petite  humbird.  Monsieur  Van  Vonswitzenswizzle  vill 
help  me  have  de  grand  satisfactiong." 

"Yaw,  Mynheer  Parley  Vous,"  answered  the  Dutchman,  "it 
ish  mit  greater  pleashur  as  you,  I  sees  de  beaudiful  humbird.  Va 
color  is  de  beaudiful  creadur,  Patrick?" 

"  Och!  noo,  an  isn't  it  all  over  red  an  brown,  afther  bein  spec- 
kled wid  all  sorts  o'  colors  from  its  head  till  its  tail,  sure.  Just 
come  down  in  the  cabin,  where  the  purty  cratures  can't  be  afther 
flyin  aff,  an  I'll  jist  then  let  them  out  noo." 

Down  went  the  Dutchman  and  the  Frenchman  into  the  cabin, 
tickled  amazingly  at  the  idea  of  having  an  opportunity  to  see  the 
beautiful  humming-birds  come  out  of  the  nest,  all  over  red  and 

59 


466  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILKORD    I3ARU. 

brown,  and  speckled  with  all  sorts  of  colors,  from  the  head  to 
the  tail. 

"  Noo  mind  yer  eye,"  said  Paddy  on  the  outside,  "  an  don't  ye 
be  afther  pullin  out  the  stopper  till  let  the  birds  out  o'  the  nest, 
intil  it's  meself  that's  fastened  the  door  o'  the  cabin  noo,  for  I'm 
jist  afeard  the  birds  'ill  be  aff." 

Paddy  accordingly  fastened  the  door  of  the  cabin;  and,  peeping 
through  a  crevice  made  by  the  sliding  doors,  he,  with  a  suppressed 
laugh,  told  Monsieur  Parley  Vous  Francois  to  hold  the  nest,  while 
Mynheer  Van  Vonswitzenswizzle  should  pull  out  the  stopper. 
With  the  delightful  expectation  of  seeing  and  hearing  the  beau- 
tiful little  humming-birds  flying  and  humming  around  the  cabin, 
Mynheer  Van  Vonswitzenswizzle  pulled  out  the  stopper;  when, 
lo!  out  poured  a  swarm  of  roaring  and  enraged  hornets  made 
more  savage  by  having  been  long  kept  confined  and  tumbled 
about  in  the  nest.  With  fury  they  rushed  upon  Parley  Vous  and 
Vonswitzenswizzle,  stinging  them  in  every  part  of  the  body  un- 
covered. 

"Oh!  mine  Dat!  mine  Dat!"  roared  the  Dutchman,  "mine  eye 
ish  stung  clean  out  of  de  sight." 

"  Mon  Dieu !  mon  Dieu!"  exclaimed  Parley  Vous,  dropping 
the  nest  and  rushing  to  the  cabin  door,  "  save  dis  leetle  French- 
man from  de  diable  humbird.  Ah !  bezook,  sair,  Monsieur  Pa- 
trick, me  shoot  you  wid  de  small  sword.  Diable,  me  runne  you 
trou  de  pody  wig  de  pistol.  Open  te  door,  open  te  door,  me  killa 
you,  bez'ook." 

Paddy  laughed  until  he  thought  he  had  carried  the  joke  far 
enough,  and  then  opened  the  door,  taking  good  care  to  make  his 
escape,  ere  the  enraged  Frenchman  and  Dutchman  reached  the 
deck.  One  of  the  hornets  had  stung  the  Dutchman  on  the  lip, 
which  it  swelled  to  an  enormous  size,  giving  him  a  very  grotesque 
and  ludicrous  appearance ;  while  the  Frenchman's  eyes  were 
almost  closed  up.  They  never  could  bear  the  name  of  a  hum- 
ming-bird afterwards,  and  never  again  desired  to  see  a  humming- 
bird's nest;  though  they  were  well  satisfied  that  Paddy  had,  in  the 
language  of  the  Latin  quotation  at  the  head  of  this  story,  given  to 
every  one  his  own. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  467 


THE  following  affecting  incident,  worthy  the  attention  of  the  Natural  Historian,  recently 
occurred  in  Delaware.  A  young  bird  was  caught  in  a  garden  by  a  cat,  and  was  so  much 
injured  before  the  humane  proprietor  of  the  garden  could  get  to  it,  that  it  could  not  stand. 
He  took  it  to  a  place  of  safety  and  laid  it  down,  when  it  turned  upon  its  back  in  the  ago- 
nies of  death.  The  mother  bird  came  with  food  in  its  mouth,  and,  after  flying  around  it 
in  great  distress,  alighted  and  endeavored  to  coax  it  to  get  on  its  feet  and  eat.  Finding 
that  it  took  no  notice  of  her,  she  appeared  greatly  distressed,  and  in  the  act  of  trying  to 
feed  it,  she  fell  down  and  expired  at  its  side. 

AT  morn  the  mother  of  a  little  bird 

Sat  gaily  singing  on  a  garden  tree; 
At  noon  no  more  those  joyous  notes  were  heard, — 

The  mother  mourn 'd,  alas!  in  misery! 
A  cruel  one  crept  softly  to  the  shade, 

As  erst  the  serpent  crawl 'd  in  Eden's  bow'r; 
Blasted  a  scene  of  pure  and  holy  love, 

And  broke  a  mother's  heart  in  one  short  hour. 

Bleeding  upon  its  back,  with  half-clos'd*eye, 

She  saw  the  idol  of  her  fond  heart  there; 
In  vain  she  coax'd  her  darling  pledge  to  fly, 

In  vain  she  flew  around  it  in  despair; 
She  gazed  a  moment,  with  a  piteous  look, 

On  her  expiring  offspring  at  her  side; 
And  while  her  heart  in  its  deep  anguish  broke, 

She  flutter'd,  fell,  and  by  her  lov'd  one  died! 

Oh!  ye,  of  youthful  years,  whose  hands  have  riven 

The  bands  of  love  in  many  a  downy  nest, 
Think  of  the  grief  your  cruel  sport  hath  given ! 

Ah!  think  how  many  a  mother's  heart  unblest, 
Hath  bled  and  broke,  when  from  her  tender  care 

You  bore  away  her  nestlings  in  the  grove ! 
Oh!  think  of  all  her  blasted  bliss,  and  spare 

What  God  hath  bless 'd,  a  picture  of  pure  love ! 

And  ye,  the  children  of  a  greater  growth — 

Sportsmen,  who  thro'  the  fields  and  forests  go; 
Better  that  ye  should  spend  your  lives  in  sloth, 

Than  seek  amusement  in  a  creature's  woe! 
Ah!  why  destroy  the  children  of  sweet  song, 

That  in  great  Nature's  Church  orisons  raise? 
For  wanton  cruelty  is  sinful   wrong, 

Done  to  the  creature  and  Creator's  praise, 


468  "WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

I  would  not,  could  not  call  that  man  my  friend,* 

Whose  hand  could  crush  a  creature  God  has  made; 
Whose  cruel  heart  in  carelessness  could  rend 

Those  heart-felt  ties  that  love  on  all  hath  laid; 
Oh!  let  me  sooner  bind  than  break  one  heart, 

Bound  by  affection,  flowing  from  above ! 
What  God  hath  join'd  no  man  in  sport  should  part,- 

He  wills  in  goodness  all  should  live  and  love. 


<Kb  3hm 

o 


HARK!  heard  you  not  the  step  of  gray-hair'd  Time, 

Hast'ning  along  life's  lane  with  youthful  ease? 
Hist!  heard  you  not  his  voice,  with  sound  sublime, 

Tolling  the  knell  of  buried  centuries? 
Another  year  has  pass'd  away,  with  all 

Its  wrecks,  on  time's  unturning,  trackless  tide; 
So  are  man's  triumphs  ever  doom'd  to  fall, 

And  be  lost  in  oblivion's  vortex  wide; 

The  never  varying  home  of  his  most  vaunted  pomp  and  pride. 

Ah!  while  we  hail  with  joy  the  new-born  year, 

Let  us  reflect  on  time's  receding  wave: 
And  while  upon  the  dead  one  falls  our  tear, 

Remember  we  are  nearer  to  the  grave; 
Millions,  like  us,  have  lived  and  loved  and  died; 

Millions,  like  us,  have  hail'd  each  New  Year's  Day; 
Where  are  they  now? — With  all  their  pomp  and  pride, 

They  long  since  from  the  earth  have  pass'd  away! 

From  century  to  century,  the  giddy  and  the  gay. 

In  days  long  pass'd,  when  Greece  in  glory  shone, 

And  Rome  was  mighty  mistress  of  the  world, 
Millions  have  hail'd  the  years  as,  one  by  one, 

They  came  and  were  into  oblivion  hurl'd; 
So  did  THEY  follow — like  the  woodland  leaves, 

Green  in  their  glory,  they  decay'd  and  fell; 
Or  gather'd  in  the  field,  like  golden  sheaves, 

Were  garner 'd  in  the  grave,  where  we  shall  dwell; 

And  yet  how  many  millions  will  be,  who  can  tell? 

*  The  poet  COWPER  declares  that  he  would  not  rank  that  man  in  the  list  of  his  friends, 
though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense,  who  would  step  aside  in  his  evening 
path  to  crush  a  worm. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  469 

Oh!  then  let  us  in  wisdom  view  the  past, 

And  profit  by  experience — let  the  mind 
Dwell  with  a  deep  reflection  on  the  last; 

And  in  the  present  year  resolve  to  find 
An  antidote  for  evil,  and  retrieve 

All  wrongs  that  we  have  done  in  days  gone  by; 
Oh!  let  us  up  to  virtue's  dictates  live, 

And  learn  that  useful  lesson  how  to  die, 

That  we  may  find  that  far  off  land  of  light  and  love  on  high. 

We  have  no  lease  ev'n  of  a  single  hour, 

This  day  the  thread  of  life  in  twain  may  part; 
There  is  a  mighty,  nay,  ALMIGHTY  POWER, 

That  may  this  instant  still  the  thoughtless  heart; 
Then  let  us  on  this  New  Year's  Day, 'in  truth, 

Resolve  on  life's  reform;  to  live  in  love, 
To  practice  virtue,  which  alone  forsooth, 

Can  lift  us  to  the  land  of  light  above, 

Where  friend  shall  meet  with  friend,  and  shall  in  joy  forever  rove. 


OM  seeing  her  Tomb  in  St.  Andrew's  Church- Yard,  erected  by  the  Rev.  CORKY 
CHAMBERS,  her  husband. 

OH!  if  there's  a  heart  in  the  land  of  the  blest, 
Tis  that  for  which  mine  is  so  deeply  distress 'd: 
We'll  meet,  yes,  we'll  meet  when  I  pass  thro'  the  grave, 
In  the  land  of  the  beautiful, — land  of  the  brave. 

She  lov'd  me  on  earth,  and  to  her  it  is  given, 
To  love  me  beyond  the  blue  stars  in  the  heav'n; 
At  the  gates  made  of  gold,  in  the  future  we'll  meet, 
And  lock'd  in  her  arms  will  that  meeting  be  sweet. 

Oh!  when  not  a  friend  save  my  mother  I  had, 
I  look'd  in  her  eye  and  I  saw  she  was  glad, 
That  a  brother  she  had,  tho'  a  rude  child  of  sin, 
Whom  she,  by  her  love,  from  his  habits  could  wim 

Ah!  would  that  I  never  had  gazed  on  the  fair, 
For  woman  has  spoken  my  doom  of  despair; 
From  her  lip  that's  so  luscious  in  love  fell  the  tone, 
That  sent  me  to  ruin  and  left  me  alone. 


0ms 

<-b 


Of  Liberty  Town,  Frederick  County,  Maryland;  who  died  of  Consumption  in 
the  25th  year  of  his  age. 


HIS  gifted  and  promising  young  physician  was 
the  only  son  of  the  venerable  Dr.  JOHN  W.  DOR- 
SET, who  was  formerly  a  Surgeon  in  the  United 
States'  Navy.  He  sailed  with  Stephen  Decatur 
in  the  Brig  Argus  from  Boston — was  with  him  at 
the  burning  of  the  Frigate  Philadelphia,  in  the 
the  port  of  Tripoli,  and  in  every  action  during 
three  years;  under  the  brave  and  lamented  Com- 
modore Edward  Preble,  from  1803  to  1806,  at 
which  time  he  returned  home. 

That  aged  father,  after  having  faced  the  ene- 
mies of  his  country  and  braved  danger  and  death 
in  the  deadly  conflict  in  which  many  a  brave 
heart  ceased  to  beat,  has  lived  to  see  the  pride 
of  his  heart,  and  the  staff  and  stay  of  his  declining 
years  go  down  to  the  grave  in  the  very  morning 
of  manhood  and  the  bloom  of  beauty;  struck  down  by  consumption, 
that  fell  destroyer  of  our  race,  that  bids  defiance  to  medical  skill, 
and  falls  alike  on  age  and  infancy;  on  the  brave  and  the  beautiful; 
the  graceful  and  the  gifted.  None  but  a  father's  heart — none  but 
a  heart  like  his,  that  has  tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  anguish,  and  felt 
the  pang  of  sorrow  from  more  shafts  than  one,  can  conceive  of 
the  utter  desolation  that  pervades  his  bosom  at  seeing,  thus  early, 
an  amiable  and  gifted  son  given  to  an  untimely  tomb,  who  bade 
fair  to  be  an  honor  to  the  science  of  medicine,  and  to  fill  his 
station  of  respectability  and  usefulness  when,  full  of  age  and 
honors,  he  should  be  gathered  to  the  mausoleum  of  his  fathers. 

But  alas !  the  shaft  of  death,  with  unerring  aim,  has  hit  its  shining 
mark,  and  society  has  lost  one  of  its  loveliest  ornaments.     The 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILKOHD    BAUD. 

mind,  in  which  genius  was  rearing  a  temple  to  future  fame  and 
usefulness,  is  no  more — the  heart,  in  which  the  noblest  virtues 
loved  to  dwell,  is  silent  forever! 


OH!  Death,  how  cruel  art  thou  thus  to  blight, 
E'en  in  the  morn  of  manhood   and  .in  bloom; 

The  best  beloved,  the  beautiful,  the  bright, 
Quenching  the  light  of  genius  in  the  tomb ! 

Must  the  most  fair  the  soonest  fade  away, 
And  happy  hearts  be  doom'd,  alas!  to  sigh? 

Canst  thou  not  spare  earth's  ornaments  a  day, 
While  thousands,  loathing  life,  desire  to  die? 

Ah!  thus  it  ever  is  that  virtuous  worth, 
For  which  we  live  and  love,  is  rudely  torn-, 

Just  as  it  binds  our  hope-lit  hearts  to  earth, 

Tis  snatch 'd  away,  and  leaves  our  souls  to  mourn. 

Thus  was  the  aged  father's  bosom  blest, 
With  all  that  made  life  happy — a  dear  son; 

But  thou,  oh!  Death,  that  bosom  hath  distress 'd, 
Blasted  his  hopes,  and  left  his  heart  undone. 

Around  that  home  an  Eden  once  was  spread, 
And  beautiful  the  flowers  were  blooming  there; 

But  Death  twice  enter 'd,  numbering  with  the  dead 
A  son  of  science,  and  a  daughter  fair. 

Society  and  Science  both  must  mourn, 

O'er  the  sad  relics  of  departed  worth; 
And  genius  bend  in  sorrow  o'er  the  bourne, 

Where  slumbers  now  an  ornament  of  earth. 

His  was  a  soul  of  honor  everywhere, 
That  to  ignoble  actions  scorn 'd  to  bend; 

True  to  his  trust  in  friendship's  faith,  he  ne'er 
Forgot  a  favor,  or  forsook  a  friend. 

He  read  the  book  of  nature,  and  he  saw, 
In  every  thing;  each  feather,  fly,  and  flower, 

An  evidence  of  the  eternal  law, 

And  of  a  mighty  overruling  Power. 

And,  with  a  Christian's  heart,  he  did  adore 
That  wondrous  Being,  who  bids  planets  roll; 

Who  bids  the  lightnings  leap*  the  ocean  roar, 
And  is  of  all  the  centre  and  the  soul. 


472  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

His  friends  were  many,  and  his  foe  not  one, 
His  bosom's  blessing  he  to  all  men  gave; 

Upright  in  all  things,  and  a  duteous  son, 
He  trod  the  path  of  virtue  to  the  grave. 

Oh!  it  is  sad  to  think  that  one  so  good, 
That  one  so  gifted,  should  so' soon  depart! 

Had  he  but  lived,  methinks  he  might  have  stood 
In  Fame's  proud  temple,  from  the  world  apart. 

Ah !  who  can  tell  the  future  destiny 

Of  such  a  mind,  with  much  of  knowledge  crown 'd: 
He  might  have  shone,  with  glorious  brilliancy, 

In  science'  halls,  by  future  time  renown'd. 

•i  * 

But  ah !  jvist  as  he  entered  the  career 
Of  fame  and  usefulness,  he  met  his  doom; 

Slowly  he  pined  and  perish 'd — many  a  tear 
Has  been  pour'd  forth  o'er  his  untimely  tomb. 

Full  often  will  his  lonely  sire  repair 

Where  now  he  sleeps,  within  his  lowly  bed, 

To  dwell,  alas!  a. weeping  hermit  there, 
And  mourn,  in  unavailing  grief,  the  dead. 

But  oh !  his  happy  soul  hath  soar'd  above 
On  Seraph  wings;  it  sleeps  not  in  the  sod; 

In  yonder  far  off  land  of  light  and  love, 
He  dwells  within  the  garden  of  his  God. 

He  died  as  dies  the  good  man,  and  behold ! 

The  angels  tune  their  holy  harps  in   Heaven; 
And  open  wide  the  glittering  gates  of  gold, 

To  welcome  him  to  whom  a  crown  is  given. 

His  virtues  he  bequeath 'd  us,  that  we  yet 
May  meet  him  in  a  lovelier  land  than  this; 

Where  darkness  is  unknown — suns  never  set, 
And  sorrow  never  comes,  but  all  is  bliss. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  473 


lUfltrttoni  nn  tjje  Imt[j  of  Karat*  Manning, 

Son  of  James  L.  and  Mary  Roche,  who  died  in  Wilmington,  Del.,  on  Saturday, 
the  llth  of  March,  1848,  in  the  third  year  of  his  age. 

In  the  dying  moments  of  this  peculiarly  interesting  child,  a  circumstance  occurred,  which 
was  the  most  irresistibly  tender  and  touching  to  the  heart  of  sensibility,  of  any  that  I  have 
ever  met  with,  or  treasured  among  poetical  reminiscences.  Whilst  the  father  was  bending, 
in  the  deep  anguish  of  his  soul,  over  his  dying  child,  the  very  idol  and  angel  of  his  affec- 
tions, and  in  whose  existence  all  his,  hopes  and  happiness  were  centred,  the  expiring  child, 
seeing  the  agonies  his  beloved  father  was  enduring,  and  forgetful  of  his  own  sufferings, 
reached  forth  his  little  hand,  and  wiped  away  a  tear  which  had  j,ust  gushed  from  a  heart 
breaking  with  anguish.  I  have  seen  a  wretched  father  and  miserable  mother  mourning,  in 
the  wild  distraction  of  despair,  over  a  dying  child  that  was  idolized  j  and  I  have  seen  a  little 
child  come  to  the  bedside  to  see  a  dear  and  devoted  father  die ;  but  never,  no,  never  have 
I  witnessed  an  incident  so  powerfully  calculated  to  rend  the  coldest  and  most  unfeeling 
heart,  as  this.  Even  the  solitary  thought  of  an  idolized  child,  when  dying,  thus  wiping 
away  the  tear  from  the  eye  of  an  agonized  parent,  is  sufficient  to  touch,  even  to  tenderness 
and  tears;  the  generous  soul  alive  to  sympathy  and  sensibility. 

OH!  yes,  it  is  enough  to  pierce  the  heart, 

E'en  as  a  dagger,  with  a  transport  wild; 
Thus  to  behold  our  brightest  hope  depart, — 

Thus  to  weep  o'er  a  dear  and  dying  child. 

When  from  our  arms  the  aged  disappear, 
Within  the  gloomy  grave,  we  heave  a  sigh; 

Then  wipe  away,  ourselves,  the  bitter  tear, 
For  it  was  natural  for  them  to  die. 

But  oh!  when  Death  thus  snatches  from  our  arms 
A  much  loved  child,  in  early  boyhood's  bloom, 

It  is  severe  to  see  its  cherish 'd  charms, 
Regardless  of  our  grief,  sent  to  the  tomb. 

Oh!  how  severe  beside  the  bed  to  stand, 
And  watch  a  dying  son,  now  doubly  dear; 

To  see  him  stretch  in  love  his  little  hand, 
And  wipe  away  a  weeping  father's  tear ! 

Methinks  the  angels  in  the  halls  on  high, 
Did  bend  in  bliss  that  scene  of  love  to  see; 

And  tho'  they  wept  to  see  the  sufferer  die, 

Rejoiced  to  think  he  soon  with  them  would  be. 

With  such  a  child  'twas  hard  to  part,  but  oh ! 

Why  should  ye  weep?    He's  in  the  land  of  love; 
He  has  escaped  this  wicked  world  of  woe: 

Prepare  to  meet  your  happy  child  above ! 

60 


474  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP  DR.  GARRET  S.  LAYTON,  OF  JIILFORD,  DEL. 

Who  was  found  dead  in  his  bed.    It  was  supposed  that  he  died  of  Apoplexy.    He  was  the 
son  of  LOWDEN  LATTON,  Esq.,  and  the  brother  of  Judge  CALEB  S.  LAYTON. 

ALAS!  that  Death  should  soonest  take 

Our  best  loved  friends  away; 
And  bid  those  hearts  with  anguish  break, 

So  joyous  yesterday. 

In  life  we  are  in  death  —  how  true  ! 

Eire  yonder  sun  may  set, 
Our  souls  may  be  demanded,  too, 

And  all  we  loved  forget. 

Like  him,  we  may  in  health  appear, 

In  manhood's  stalwart  morn; 
And  ere  an  hour,  a  day,  a  year, 

Leave  all  our  friends  forlorn. 

But  yesterday,  he  trod  the  earth, 

In  manhood's  noble  pride; 
And  in  his  breast  a  heart  of  worth, 

Pour'd  on  its  purple  tide. 

To-day,  where  is  he?  —  lowly  lies 

His  form  within  the  tomb; 
Seal'd  are  his  lips,  and  closed  his  eyes, 

In  everlasting  gloom. 

But  where,  oh  !  where,  is  now  that  soul, 

That  yearn  'd  for  human  weal; 
That  bade  the  Gospel's  thunders  roll, 

And  sinners  hearts  to  feel? 

Tho'  in  the  solemn,  silent  sod, 

His  relics  now  repose, 
To  the  blest  garden  of  his  God, 

His  pious  spirit  rose. 

Weep  not,  ye  friends,  but  oh  !  prepare 

To  meet  him  in  the  skies; 
Where  tears  are  never  shed,  and  where 

Bliss  never,  never  dies. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  475 

Weep  not ! — with  angels  bright  above, 

He  knows  no  grief  nor  care: 
But  dwells  in  cloudless  light  and  love, — 

Oh !  would  that  I  were  there ! 

Tis  hard  to  see  our  kindred  fall, 

Whom  we  so  dearly  prize; 
But  'tis,  alas!  the  doom  of  all, 

That  dwell  below  the  skies. 

»  .•  . 

But  oh !  'tis  sweet  to  know  that  we 

Shall  meet,  in  joy  to  reign; 
In  yonder  land  of  love,  and  be 

Ne'er  doom'd  to  part  again. 


OH  !  tell  me  not  that  woman 's  heart 

Is  full  of  guilt  and  guile; 
And  say  not  treachery  and  art 

Are  lurking  in  her  smile; 
Say  not  her  beautiful  bright  eye, 

But  dazzles  to  deceive; 
Or  that  her  tongue  of  ecstasy, 

Betrays  while  we  believe. 

I  never  knew  a  moment's  bliss, 

Like  that  remembered  now; 
When  first  the  impress  of  her  kiss 

Was  printed  on  my  brow; 
In  life  I  never  knew  an  hour, 

To  my  fond  soul  so  sweet; 
As  when  I  bow'd  in  beauty's  bower, 

At  witching  woman's  feet. 

When  sorrow  my  sad  soul  hath  wrung, 

And  sickness  laid  me  low, 
The  music  of  her  touching  tongue 

Hath  banish 'd  every  woe; 
I  ne'er  to  woman's  faithful  heart, 

Have  yet  appeal 'd  in  vain; 
She  loves  a  solace  to  impart, 

And  charm  away  our  pain. 


476  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

'^ 


OH!  when  on  days  departed, 

I  gaze  in  memory's  glass, 
And  think  of  those  who  started 

With  me,  life's  race,  alas! 
My  bosom  breathes  a  sigh 

Of  sorrow,  while  I  gaze 
Into  the  tomb  of  time — mine  eye 

Weeps  for  departed  days. 

Ah!  where  are  those  I  cherished 

In  childhood's  happy  hours? 
Oh!  they  have  long  since  perished, 

Like  Summer's  fairest  flowers; 
I've  stood  by  many  a  grave, 

And  read  the  burial  stone 
Of  those,  the  beautiful  and  brave, 

Who  left  me  here  alone. 

Oh !  when,  in  memory,  calling 

The  loved  of  boyhood's  day; 
Who  like  the  leaves  now  falling, 

Forever  passed  away; 
A  gush  of  tender  tears, 

My  sorrow  bids  me  shed; 
And,  silently,  1  mourn  the  years 

Of  cherished  childhood  fled. 

Ah !  who  the  days  departed, 

Without  a  tear  can  trace? 
And  think  of  those  who  started 

With  them  life's  joyous  race, 
Without  a  sigh,  to  mark 

How  many  a  heart  did  mourn; 
Ere  death  had  sent  them  to  the  dark 

And  solitary  bourne? 

And  years  are  by  me  stealing, 

Life's  downward  road  I  tread; 
That  lonely  home  revealing, 

Where  childhood's  friends  lie  dead: 
Each  day-dream  warns  my  heart, 

Sad  hours  their  tokens  tell, 
That  I  like  them,  must  soon  depart, 

And  bid  the  world  farewell. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  477 

The  hopes  I  prized  have  perished, 

And  childhood's  friends  are  gone; 
All,  all  I  fondly  cherished 

At  boyhood's  blissful  dawn; 
Life's  pleasures  are  but  pain, 

Its  hopes  are  vanity; 
And  what  is  all  the  world  but  vain, 

Vain  vanity  to  me? 


Claming  <Dff. 


FAIR  Ladies,  humbly  at  your  feet  I  bow, 
To  breathe  pure  friendship's  everlasting  vow; 
To  own  my  faults,  and  to  atone  them  too, 
And  sure  I  am  I've  nought  but  friends  in  you; 
The  heavenly  heart  of  woman  cannot  bear 
The  gall  of  bitterness — so  here's  my  pray'r: — 
If  I  have  sinn'd  against  your  blessed  sex, 
If  I  have  written  aught  your  hearts  to  vex; 
If  I  have  dared  dispute  your  temperance  creed, 
Or  caused  one  tear  to  flow,  one  heart  to  bleed; 
If  I  have  said  one  word  that  might  be  bent, 
Or  twisted  into  meaning  never  meant; 
I  humbly  crave  your  pardon,  while  I  kneel, 
For  where's  the  man  your  frowns  that  would  not  feel? 
I  would  not  breathe  one  word  to  cause  the  gush 
Of  blood  to  beauty's  cheek,  tho'  much  the  blush 
Of  modesty  I  have  admired — indeed, 
I  could  not  bear  to  cause  one  heart  to  bleed. 

Ladies,  to  you  I  bow  my  knee  alone, 
Your  sceptre  I  obey,  on  beauty's  throne; 
To  man  I'd  scorn  to  say  what  I've  said  here, 
God  never  made  the  man  that  I  could  fear; 
Rather  than  crouch  to  him  I'd  court  a  grave, 
And  perish   sooner  than  his  pardon  crave; 
But  when  earth's  angels  frown  upon  me,  where, 
Oh!  where  for  solace  can  I  then  repair? 
Without  your  smiles  1  feel  I  am  disgraced, 
Without  your  presence  all  the  world  's  a  waste; 
Without  society  I  am  undone, 
1  stand  in  life's  wild  wilderness  alone; 


478  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

But  when  with  woman  I  her  gay  smiles  see, 
The  world  's  indeed  a  Paradise  to  me. 

There  was  a  time  when  I  at  beauty's  feet 
Bow'd  down,  and  own'd  such  servitude  was  sweet; 
There  was  a  time  when  I  her  silken  chain 
With  pride  put  on,  and  were  it  thus  again 
I  were  a  happier  man — alas!   that  they — 
Those  happy  days — so  swiftly  pass'd  away! 
For  of  life's  hours  that  make  us  or  that  mar, 
The  hours  of  courtship  are  the  happiest  far; 
Tis  a  green  spot  upon  life's  dreary  waste, 
With  fancy's  flowers  most  gorgeously  graced; 
One  day  of  love  is  worth  a  thousand  years 
Devoted  to  sad  sighs  and  tender  tears. 

Oh!  could  I  bow  to  her,  and  once  more  gaze 
On  her  dark  eye,  as  oft  in  other  days; 
And  could  I  now  indulge  the  dazzling  dream, 
That  once  shone  brightly  on  life's  silv'ry  stream, 
I  were  a  happier  man;  all  pure  within, 
No  longer  the  unhallow'd  child  of  sin. 
From  childhood's  hours  we  both  together  grew, 
And  purest  bliss  but  with  each  other  knew; 
I  felt  no  joy  and  no  corroding  care, 
That  that  fair  creature  would  not  claim  a  share; 
Her  smile  was  bliss  to  me,  her  heart  was  heaven, 
And  had  not  th'  last  link  of  love  been  riven, 
I  were  a  better  man,  for  she  had  power 
To  lead  my  footsteps  to  life's  blissful  bower; 
Her  charms  could  woo  me  from  all  evil  things, 
More  happy  far  than  conquerors  or  kings, 
Her  silv'ry  song  could  soothe  me,  when  we  stray'd, 
At  moonlight  hours,  along  the  flowery  glade. 

From  those  blest  days,  the  brightest  on  this  earth, 
I've  priz'd  dear  woman's  pure  and  priceless  worth; 
And  had  I  worship 'd  God  with  half  the  zeal 
That  I  have  worship 'd  her,  I  should  not  feel 
The  scathe  of  sin  upon  my  soul,  as  now, 
Nor  yet  would  grief  sit  burning  on  my  brow. 
As  bows  the  Indian  to  the  setting  sun, 
When  night  approaches  and  the  day  is  done; 
Or  as  the  Hindoo  to  his  image  kneels, 
And  in  his  soul  a  deep  devotion  feels; 
So  have  I  bowed  to  woman,  without  art, 
The  angel  and  the  idol  of  my  heart. 

Ladies,  forgive  the  erring  child  of  song, 
Frowns  to  your  lovely  faces  ne'er  belong; 
Think  not  I  flatter — that  I  know  would  vex — 
I've  always  been  a  favorite  with  your  sex; 
I  ne'er  appeal 'd  to  woman  yet  in  vain, 
Say,  Ladies,  shall   I  unforgiv'n   remain? 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  479 


of 


SHE  dwells  on  the  brow  of  the  dark  craggy  mountain, 
Where  the  thundering  cataract  tumbles  below; 

And  she  bathes  in  the  streams  of  the  crystalline  fountain, 
Unawed  by  the  billows  that  rapidly  flow. 

She  is  seen  in  the  night,  on  the  black  tempest  driven, 
When  the  sea-boy  has  given  himself  to  despair; 

When  the  lightning  illumines  the  deep  vault  of  heaven, 
Her  form  is  beheld  in  the  tremulous  glare. 

She  is  seen  when  the  blasts  on  the  billowy  ocean 

Heave  the  wide  waste  of  waters  in  mountains  of  waves; 

On  the  vortex  of  ruin  she  pays  her.  devotion, 

When  the  whirlwind  of  heaven  distractedly  raves. 

She  sleeps  on  the  down  of  the  cygnet  of  Ganges; 

Her  cradle  the  winds,  and  her  curtain  the  sky; 
On  her  pillow  of  fame  in  the  wild  dream  she  ranges, 

And  many  a  tear-drop  illumines  her  eye. 

By  the  pale  light  of  Luna  in  sorrow  she  wanders, 
When  Sol  in  his  splendor  sinks  down  in  the  west; 

O'er  the  tomb  of  affection  all  lonely  she  ponders, 
And  sighs  for  the  heart  that  has  sunk  to  its  rest. 

She  is  heard  in  the  temples  where  proud  grandeur  crumbles, 
Where  the  owl  and  the  raven  pour  forth  their  wild  strains, 

Where  silence  —  dark  silence,  eternally  slumbers, 
And  the  night  of  the  tomb  in  their  solitude  reigns. 

On  the  banks  of  the  stream,  where  the  dash  of  the  billow 

Breaks  over  the  rock  in  its  silvery  foam  — 
She  plays  on  the  harp  'neath  the  wind-beaten  willow, 

And  sighs  for  the  pleasures  of  country  and  home. 

She  sings  her  best  song  to  her  unhappy  lover, 
Who  has  fled  to  the  battle  thro'  dangers  afar; 

0  she  breathes  out  her  soul  to  her  pitiless  rover, 
And  starts  when  she  hears  the  loud  thunders  of  war. 

On  the  towering  tree  she  engraves  his  remembrance, 
When  sorrow  from  madness  sinks  down  to  despair, 

And  she  crushes  her  lyre,  the  sweet  soul  of  her  semblance, 
While  demons  of  prejudice  laugh  thro'  the  air. 


480  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 


THE  PATHS  OF  VIRTUE  AUE  THE  PATHS  OF  PEACE. 

OH!  I  have  sighed  to  be  like  those 

Who  walk  in  virtue's  peaceful  path; 
But  round  me  rose  a  thousand  foes, 

The  fiends  of  wretchedness  and  wrath; 
I  sought  that  bugbear  of  the  brain, 

Called  happiness;  but  all!  to  me, 
I  found  that  pleasure  was  but  pain, 

And  mirth  itself  was  misery. 

Hope  spread  her  rainbow  round  my  soul, 

And  fancy  wove  her  magic  spell; 
I  lifted  to  my  lips  the  bowl, 

And  found  within  my  heart  a  hell; 
Ambition's  baubles  'lured  my  sight, 

But  dazzled  only  to  decay; 
Like  meteors  of  a  moonless  night, 

They  flashed  and  faded  far  away. 

I  sought  the  bubble  bliss  in  fame, 

In  fortune,  and  in  friendship  free; 
But  found,  alas  !  it  was  the  same 

In  liquor,  love  and  luxury; 
The  bubble,  as  I  grasped  it,  broke, 

Tho'  o'er  my  soul  a  light  it  cast, 
And  from  the  dazzling  dream  I  woke 

To  pain  and  penitence  at  last. 

Oh!   Solomon,  like  thee  I  found 

All  was  but  vanity's  control, 
That  pleasure's  gay  and  giddy  round 

Was  but  vexation  of  the  soul; 
And  now,  tossed  on  the  stormy  sea 

Of  passion,  prejudice  and  pride; 
I  sigh,  sweet  piety,  for  thee 

To  be  my  guardian  and  my  guide. 

I  sigh  to  walk  in  virtue's  path, 

My  soul  from  sin  and  sorrow  free  — 
Free  from  my  God's  avenging  wrath, 

In  light,  in  love  and  liberty: 
My  soul  is  sick  of  joys  that  die, 

Oh!  would  that  I  to  God  were  given! 
Oh!   that  my  heart  could  look  on  high, 

And  claim  one  holy  hope  of  heaven! 


WRITINGS    OK    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  481 

When  conscience,  with  a  scorpion  tongue, 

To  anguish  goads  my  writhing  soul, 
For  all  the  gifts  of  God  I've  flung 

Away,  I  seize  the  maddening  bowl, 
And  while  the  demon  of  despair 

Dethrones,  the  monarch  of  the  mind, 
I  breathe  in  penitence  a  prayer, 

And  weep,  oh!  yes,  I  weep  to  find 

That  I've  abused  the  gifts  of  God, 

And  spurned  his  goodness  plainly  shown; 
Oh!  would  that  now  his  chastening  rod 

Would  bid  my  sorrowing  soul  atone! 
One  hour  of  pious  joy  is  worth 

A  thousand  years  of  earthly  bliss;  • 
For  if  there's  peace  upon  this  earth, 

And  heaven  below,   'tis  this,   'tis  this ! 


REFLECTIONS  occasioned  by  having  recently  received  from  a  very  intelligent  lady  of 
Georgetown,  District  of  Columbia,  some  flowers  which  were  gathered  in  Scotland  in  the 
year  1762,  and  which  retain  their  color,  notwithstanding  eighty  years  have  rolled  down  the 
torrent  of  time  since  they  bloomed  in  their  beauty.  They  have  certainly  faded  in  a  mea- 
sure, but  I  mean  that  it  is  astonishing  Unit  any  color  should  be  retained  through  so  long  a 
period.  They  have  entirely  lost  their  odor.  To  the  lady  who  so  kindly  sent  them  to  me, 
I  return  a  thousand  thanks.  Among  the  many  presents  of  flowers,  Sec.,  which  I  have 
received  from  ladies  of  this  and  other  cities,  I  never  before  possessed  a  flower  eighty 
years  old. 

O'ER  Scotia's  hills,  in  beauty's  gay  built  bowers, 
Once  bloomed  in  brilliance  these  now  faded  flowers; 
Upon  the  air  their  fragrance  once  was  shed, 
The  eyes  that  saw  them  bloom  are  dim  and  dead; 
The  race  of  him  who'- nursed  them  now  is  o'er, 
The  breast  they  once  adorned  shall  beat  no  more; 
The  hand  that  plucked  them  in  the  grave  is  cast, 
They  linger  still  to  link  us  with  the  past. 

Since  beauty  blest  these  lovely  flowers  in  bloom, 
What  millions  have  descended  to  the  tomb! 
How  many  martyred  millions  of  mankind, 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  sorrows  of  the  mind! 
How  many  hearts  have  bled  and  broke,  to  prove 
The  pangs  and  penalties  of  faithless  love ! 
The  forms  that  bowed  to  beauty  in  her  bowers, 
Have  faded  and  forever,  like  these  flowers. 
61 


482  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Full  many  a  heart,  life's  anguish  doomed  to  know, 
Hast  lingering  loved,  or  withered  in  its  woe! 
Of  all  the  woes  that  in  this  world  we  feel, 
Of  all  the  pangs  that  passion  may  reveal, 
The  keenest  yet  the  human  heart  hath  proved, 
Is  still  to  love  and  yet  not  be  beloved; 
To  feed  the  fires  that  in  the  bosom  burn, 
And  find  in  faithless  hearts  no  fond  return. 

What  storms  and  tempests  have  convulsed  the  earth, 
Since  these  fair  flowers  in  beauty  had  their  birth ! 
Crowns  have  been  doomed  to  crumble  and  decay, 
Kings,  conquerors,  and  captives,  passed  away; 
Princes  and  potentates,  in  pomp  sublime, 
Have  floated  down  the  mighty  tide  of  time, 
'Mid  ruined  empires  have  in  dust  decayed, 
Flourished  to  fall,  and  like  these  flowers  to  fade. 

Where  are  the  millions  who,  on  Scotia's  shore, 
Then  lived  and  loved? — alas!  they  are  no  more; 
The  gay,  the  gifted,  beautiful  and  brave, 
Have  long  been  gathered  to  the  greedy  grave; 
Shrouded  in  death  lies  many  a  lovely  form 
Whose  heart  once  beat  with  hope  and  wishes  warm; 
Whose  eye  once  beamed  with  bliss  and  beauty  bright, 
And  blest  full  many  a  heart  with  love  and  light. 

Sweet  Scotland,  oft  I  sigh  to  tread  thy  shore, 
Thy  mounts  to  climb,  and  maidens  to  adore; 
I  long  to  linger  in  Ben  Lomond's  shades, 
Where  many  a  wild  flower  flourishes  and  fades: 
Amid  thy  gay,  green  solitudes  sublime, 
How  sweet  to  muse,  nor  mark  the  march  of  time — 
To  see  the  sun  ascending  hills  above, 
The  emblem  of  a  Saviour's  light  and  love ! 

Lady,  1  long  to  visit,  on  swift  wings, 
The  tombs  and  temples  of  old  Scotia's  kings; 
Her  castles,  where  once  moved  the  great  and  gay, 
But  crumbling  now,  with  ages  long  grown  gray; 
Where  minstrels  sung  full  many  a  war-song  sweet, 
And  Norman  knights  bowed  down  at  beauty's  feet. 
Sweet  days  of  chivalry,  when  bards  inspired, 
Sung  woman's  worth,  and  valor's  bosom  fired. 

I  sigh  to  stand  amid  the  palace  scene, 
Where  Scotland's  Mary  moved,  a  lovely  queen; 
Upon  whose  face  were  seen  the  marks  of  mind, 
And  shone  the  light  of  intellect  refined. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD.  483 

Alas !  that  she  should  pine  and  perish  too, 
By  one  whose  heart  no  kindred  feeling  knew; 
Baptized  in  blood,  like  Essex,  in^her  bloom, 
She  passed  from  gloomy  dungeons  to  her  doom. 

I  long  to  linger  near  the  magic  spot, 

Where  genius  first  inspired  the  mind  of  Scott— 

Where  Burns  reposes  in  his  rural  shade, 

A  mighty  minstrel,  and  by  nature  made; 

Who  though  a  simple  shepherd  now  we  scan, 

Was  in  his  mind  the  model  of  a  man; 

Who  gave  to  millions,  then  unborn,  his  name, 

And  bound  his  brow  with  fadeless  wreaths  of  fame. 

Sweet  land  of  love  and  learning,  how  I  long 
To  tread  where  trod  thy  classic  sons  of  song; 
I  sigh  to  gaze  upon  thy  mighty  men, 
Who  charmed  the  world  with  pencil  and  with  pen; 
Thy  halls  of  science  fain  my  feet  would  tread, 
Sacred  to  mind  and  to  thy  mighty  dead; 
Those  glorious  men  who  had  immortal  powers, 
But  now  have  faded  like  these  once  gay  flowers. 


\t  /air 


TWAS  evening,  in  a  shady  grove, 
When  first  I  heard  the  harp  of  love, 
The  sun  behind  the  hills  had  rolled 
Thro'  one  wide  flood  of  flaming  gold. 
And  o'er  the  mountain  monarch's  throne, 
The  moon  in  silver  shadows  shone, 
And  on  she  trip'd  thro'  heaven's  hall, 
Like  bridal  beauty  at  a  ball. 
Her  glances  danced  upon  the  deep, 
Like  smiles  upon  an  infant's  sleep, 
And  played  upon  the  flowery  peak, 
Like  blushes  o'er  a  lady's  cheek, 
And  o'er  the  silver  surface  far 
Shone  the  bright  shooting  of  a  star. 
A  lovely  lady  thro'  the  brake 
I  saw  beside  the  lucid  lake, 
She  stood  and  gazed  upon  her  shade 
Beneath  the  dark  blue  deep  displayed, 


484  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

And  oft  she  stretched  her  ivory  arm, 

To  grasp  the  tall  ideal  form. 

Upon  her  cheek  the  rich  red  gush 

Had  from  her  heart  conveyed  a  blush. 

A  holy  light  dwelt  on  her  face, 

Warm  from  the  pencil  pure  of  grace. 

Her  clustering  curls  in  ringlets  rolled 

On  her  white  breast  like  grapes  of  gold. 

Her  azure  eyes  wjth  softness  shone 

Like,  stars  that  stud  the  heavenly  throne. 

Where'er  her  silver  sandals  trod, 

Red  roses  sprung  and  graced   the  sod. 

Where'er  she  turned  her  eyes  around, 

Rich  ripening  peaches  pressed  the  ground, 

And  bending  branches  at  command, 

Of  clustering  plums  would  kiss  her  hand. 

She  launched  her  bark — with  long  light  oar, 

She  paddled  from  the  flow'ry  shore, 

And  as  her  bark  bent  to  the  wind, 

It  left  no  track  or  trace  behind. 

Ah !  thus,  she  cried,  man  finds  a  grave, 

Nor  leaves  one  trace  in  life's  dark  wave. 

Now  far  receded  from   the  land, 

She  smiled  and  waved  her  little  hand, 

And  struck  the  harp — the  ling 'ring  lay 

Rung  round  the  rocks  and  died  away, 

And  echo,  in  her  .airy  cell, 

Struck  ^ach  note  on  her  silver  shell, 

And  mocked  the  sweetly  warbling  wire 

Like  sighs  that  sweep  the  .^Eolean  lyre, 

0  how,  I  cried,  how  sweet  to  be 
The  mistress  of  such  minstrelsy? 

1  listened — all  was  still  and  lone, 
The  lucid  lake  in  silence  shone, 

Save  distant  sounds  that  o'er  and  o'er 
Came  mingled  with  the  ocean's  roar. 
Far,  far  the  little  bark  now  bore 
The  lovely  lady  from  the  shore. 
Just  on  the  verge  of  space  her  sail 
I  saw  still  fluttering  in  the  gale. 
How  like,  I  cried,  the  boundless  sea, 
The  great  lake  of  eternity? 
When  souls  embark  for  evermore, 
And  gaze  on  life's  receding  shore. 
That  hour  is  still  to  memory  dear, 

When  from  the  shore 

'Mid  the  ocean's  roar, 
She  paddled  a  beauteous  Gondolier, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  485 


i  Imngtan. 


THE  following  lines  arc  descriptive  of  that  awful  scene  of  the  burning  Steamboat,  which 
has  brought  hopeless  misery  to  many  a  good  and  generous  heart.  Oh !  that  I  could  stretch 
my  hand  and  wipe  away  the  tears  of  surviving  friends — that  I  could  heal  the  broken  hearts 
of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless !  But  there  is  only  one  balm,  and  that  balm  is  the  grace 
of  God. 

NIGHT  rested  on  the  sea — the  moon  alone, 
O'er  the  wide  waste  of  rolling  waters  shone; 
The  glorious  sun  had  sunk  in  western  skies, 
And  the  dim  stars  looked  down  like  angels'  eyes, 
As  if  they  wept  in  heav'n  the  approaching  doom, 
And  dropped  their  tears  o'er  that  untimely  tomb. 

The  warm  hand  pressed,  with  many  a  generous  token, 
The  long  embrace  once  o'er,  and  farewell  spoken, 
The  buoyant  boat,  swift  leaves  the  crowded  shore;     > 
To  gaze  on  forms  they  shall  behold  no  more, 
Upon  the  deck  friends  strain  their  anxious  eyes, 
Till  evening  drops  her  curtain  o'er  the  skies. 
Now  o'er  the  waters,  where  the  wanderers  sleep, 
Went  forth  that  train  upon  the  treacherous  deep; 
They  thought  of  friends  to  whom  they  should  return, 
Nor  thought,  alas!  those  friends  so  soon  would  mourn. 
In  blissful  dreams  they  think  no  more  they  roam, 
But  tread  again  the  happy  balls  of  home; 
Childhood,  and  age,  and  beauty  brightly  blest, 
Thoughtless  of  danger  on  the  dark  waves  rest; 
When  lo!  there  comes  upon  the  ear  a  cry, 
And  the  word  Fire!  sweeps  roaring  thro'  the  sky; 
The  red  flames  flash  upon  the  rolling  flood, 
Till  the  wide  waters  seem  one  sea  of  blood; 
On  the  cold  blast  dread  Azrael  comes  in  ire,  * 
Waves  his  dark  wings,  and  fans  the  fearful  fire; 
Wild  o'er  the  deck,  and  with  dishevelled  hair, 
Rush  the  sad  victims  shrieking  in  despair: 
"Where  is  my  son?"  the  frantic  father  cries, 
And  "where  my  sire?"  the  weeping  son  replies. 
Amid  that  scene  of  terror  and  alarms, 
Dear  woman,  wailing,  throws  her  ivory  arms; 
And  shall  she  perish?   nay,  one  effort  saves — 
duick  launch  the  boats  upon  the  boiling  waves; 
They're  lost!     Oh!  God,  they  sink  to  rise  no  more! 
A  hundred  voices  mingle  in  one  roar. 
From  post  to  post,  the  affrighted  victims  fly, 
While  the  red  flames  illumine  sea  and  sky; 
The  piteous  look  of  infancy  appeals 
For  help,  but  oh !  what  heart  in  danger  feels  r 


486  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

None  save  a  mother's;  see  her  clasp  her  boy! 
Floating  she  looks  to  find  her  second  joy; 
She  sees  him  now,  and  with  a  transport  wild, 
Save!  save!  oh  save!  she  cries,  my  drowning  child! 
She  waves  her  arms,  and  in  the  next  rude  wave, 
The  mother  and  her  children  find  a  grave; 
Locked  in  her  arms  her  boy  sinks  down  to  rest, 
His  head  he  pillows  on  her  clay  cold  breast; 
A  mother's  love  not  death  itself  can  part, 
She  hugs  her  dying  children  to  her  heart; 
And  fain  would  perish  more  than  once  to  save 
Her  blooming  boys  from  ocean's  awful  grave. 

A  sail !  a  sail !  a  hundred  voices  rave — 
In  the  dim  distance,  on  the  brilliant  wave, 
She  comes,  and  hope  cheers  up  those  hearts  again, 
They  shall  be  saved — alas !  that  hope  is  vain ! 
The  dastard  wretch  beholds  the  imploring  crew, 
Looks  on  the  blazing  boat,  then  bids  adieu; 
Leaves  them  to  perish  in  a  watery  grave, 
Rather  than  stretch  his  coward  hand  to  save. 
Go,  thou  inhuman  being;  be  thy  name 
A  demon's  watchword,  and  the  mark  of  shame; 
Go  teach  the  tiger  what  to  thee  is  given, 
And  be  the  scoff  of  man,  the  scorn  of  heaven; 
Be  all  those  mourning  mothers'  tears  thy  own, 
Till  human  feelings  melt  thy  heart  of  stone. 

Now  o'er  the  ice-cold  sea  the  victims  swim, 
Their  limbs  are  helpless,  and  their  eyes  grow  dim; 
With  cries  for  help,  they  yield  their  lingering  breath, 
As  one  by  one  they  close  their  eyes  in  death; 
The  blazing  wreck  a  moment  shines  more  bright, 
One  cry  is  heard,  she  sinks,  and  all  is  night. 
The  moon  "hath  set — a  darkness  shrouds  the  lee, 
No  voice  is  heard  upon  that  moonless  sea; 
Soft  jmy  spreads  her  wings  upon  the  gale, 
And  few  are  left  to  tell  the  dreadful  tale. 
From  down-beds  warm,  and  from  their  joyous  sleep, 
Full  many  an  eye  afar  shall  wake  to  weep; 
Full  many  a  heart  a  hapless  parent  mourn, 
From  friends  and  home,  alas !  untimely  torn. 
Fair  Baltimore,  thy  children  too  must  weep, 
A  father,  husband,  brother  in  the  deep; 
And  beauty's  eyes  shall  often  melt  in  tears, 
O'er  the  sad  tale  in  future  days  and  years; 
The  lisping  child  will  to  its  mother  cling, 
And  ask  what  day  its  father  home  will  bring; 
Alas !  poor  child,  no  father  comes  to  thee — 
He  sleeps,  unshrouded,  in  the  dark  blue  sea; 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  487 

No  more  thy  mother  shall  build  up  the  fire, 
To  welcome  home  her  husband,  and  thy  sire; 
No  more  the  mother,  when  the  day  is  done, 
Shall  long  to  look  upon  her  gifted  son; 
No  more  shall  clasp  him  to  her  beating  breast, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  that  he  may  still  be  blest; 
Far  from  his  mourning  mother's  arms  he  sleeps, 
Nor  knows  the  friend  who  o'er  his  fate  now  weeps. 
How  many  a  tear  shall  yet,  alas!   be  shed, 
O  'er  the  wide  tomb  that  holds  so  many  dead ! 
Mysterious  are  thy  ways,  O  God !   yet  just 
Thou  art  in  all  things — let  us  bow  and  trust. 


fttnittfl. 


ON  a  sea-beaten  rock  that  o'erhangs  the  dark  billow, 
Where  the  winds  and  the  waves  beat  enveloped  in  foam, 

He  rests  his  lone  head  on  the  rough  rugged  pillow, 
And  weeps  for  his  kindred,  his  country,  and  home. 

His  sigh,  with  the  sound  of  the  wild  surging  ocean, 
Now  mingles  in  murmurs  and  dies  on  the  wind; 

And  he  bows  his  white  knee,  and  bends  down  in  devotion, 
While  his  dark  rolling  ringlets  float  wildly  behind. 

Now  the  mem'ry  of  country,  of  home,  and  of  childhood, 

Arises  before  him  all  lovely  and  fair, 
He  seems  to  behold  his  loved  cottage  and  wild-wood, 

Then  starts  from  his  dream  and  awakes  to  despair. 

0  never,  no  never,  he  cries  in  his  sadness, 
Shall  I  again  tread  on  the  threshold  of  home; 

Or  press  my  fond  friends  to  my  bosom  with  gladness, 
Or  thro'  the  wild  woodland  in  happiness  roam. 

Far,  far  from  the  scenes  of  my  childhood  I  wander, 
Far,  far  from  the  blest  and  the  beautiful  shore; 

An  exile  alone  in  my  sorrow  I  ponder, 
And  weep  for  the  home  I  shall  visit  no  more. 

My  harp  is  unstrung  and  it  hangs  on  the  willow, 
The  winds  through  its  wires  wake  a  sorrowful  strain, 

When  borne  to  my  ear  by  the  breeze  of  the  billow, 
Despair  and  distraction  then  fire  my  brain. 


488  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Farewell  to  my  country,  my  cottage,  and  wild-wood, 
In  a  far  foreign  land  still  unfriended  I  roam; 

Adieu  to  my  friends  and  affections  of  childhood, 
A  long  last  adieu  to  my  country  and  home. 


SON  of  the  sea,  I  love  to  trace 

Thy  path  upon  the  wave; 
And  view  o'er  ocean's  silv'ry  face, 

The  sounding  surges  rave: 
And  when  the  whirldwinds  rend  the  air, 

And  lightniiigs  lave  the  lea, 
I  think  of  what  thy  ship  must  share, 

Son  of  the  stormy  sea. 

I've  seen  the  sun  sink  to  his  grave, 

In  ocean's  rolling  deep; 
The  stars  fall  in  the  western  wave, 

Where  hapless  heroes  sleep: 
I've  seen  in  ocean's  foamy  flood, 

The  dark  moon  sink  o'er  thee; 
But  thy  sun  must  go  down  in  blood, 

Son  of  the  sounding  sea. 

I  love  to  view  thy  beauteous  bark, 

Bound  to  a  foreign  clime, 
When  like  the  light  wing  of  the  lark, 

She  skims  the  surge  sublime; 
How  like  the  soul  by  time's  tide  borne, 

To   dread  eternity, 
Art  thou  when  from  thy  own  shore  torn, 

Son  of  the  rolling  sea. 

And  0  how  like  the  cheating  chain, 

That  binds  life  to  man's  heart, 
Is  that  one  plank  which  from  the  main, 

Thy  thoughtless  form  doth  part; 
Pierce  but  that  plank,  and  in  the  deep, 

On  beds  so  billowy, 
Thy  bones   must  bleach   in   f-ndlesa  sleep, 

Son  of  the  stormy  mi. 


Cfjc  Cwrnmties  0f  .Science. 


NO.    I . 

0  the  mind  that  delights  in  the  wonderful,  the 
sirange,  the  romantic,  there  is  no  greater  resource 
than  may  be  found  in  the  fields  of  science — in 
the  operations  of  nature,  that  are  going  on  every 
day  around  us.  But  what  we  see  every  day, 
does  not  excite  our  curiosity  until  we  inquire  into 
the  causes,  and  then  we  are  astonished  to  find 
that  we  do  not  understand  them.  If  we  had  never 
seen  the  sun  rise,  until  to-day,  what  a  wonder 
and  astonishment  it  would  excite  in  the  minds 
of  the  people!  And  if  I  were  to  ask  the  cause 
of  the  simplest  operations  of  nature,  that  we  see 
every  day,  how  few,  even  among  the  more,  sen- 
sible people,  would  be  able  to  answer?  so  little 
do  we  inquire  into  cause  and  effect.  For  ex- 
ample— we  every  day  blow  the  fire  with  a  pair 
of  bellows  to  make  it  burn,  and  we  know  it  does  so;  but  if  the 
question  were  asked,  "why  does  the  fire  burn,  when  I  blow  it 
with  the  bellows?"  how  few,  even  of  sensible  people,  who  think 
they  know  much,  would  be  able  to  answer;  perhaps  not  more  than 
one  in  ten.  And  if  the  question  were  asked,  of  what  the  atmos- 
phere we  breathe  is  composed,  they  could  not  reply. 

There  are  many  curiosities  connected  with  the  air  we  breathe 
and  its  effects.  Common  air  is  composed  of  oxygen  and  nitrogen 
gasses,  in  the  proportion  of  seventy-nine  parts  of  nitrogen  and 
twenty-one  of  oxygen.  The  exhilarating  gas.  which  is  breathed 
sometimes  for  amusement,  and  which  causes  persons  to  "cut 
such  fantastic  tricks,"  is  composed  of  sixty-three  parts  of  nitrogen 
and  thirty-seven  of  oxygen,  by  weight.  Here  is  a  proof  of  design  ; 
a  proof  of  a  Superior  Power,  and  shows  the  wisdom  of  that  Supe- 
rior Power.  Were  the  proportions  of  the  atmosphere  reversed, 
were  the  greater  part  of  oxygen  instead  of  nitrogen,  the  exhilarat- 
62 


490  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

ing  effect  would  be  so  great,  that  man  and  all  the  animals  on  the 
globe,  that  breathe  the  air,  would  instantly  go  mad  and  destroy 
one  another.  This  is  proven  by  the  exhilarating  gas,  which  is 
composed  of  the  same  gasses  as  the  atmosphere,  only  in  different 
proportions.  Life  and  flame  both  equally  depend  on  oxygen  for 
support,  and  it  is  by  keeping  a  constant  stream  of  oxygen  directed 
on  the  fire,  that  causes  it  to  burn  more  briskly  when  blown  with 
bellows  or  the  mouth.  The  oxygen  of  the  air  instantly  takes  fire 
in  coming  in  contact  with  the  burning  wood. 

It  has  been  proven  by  experiment,  that  life  and  flame  equally 
depend  on  oxygen  for  support.  A  philosopher  placed  a  dog  and 
a  candle  in  a  brick  oven,  made  air-tight,  having  a  glass  window 
through  which  he  could  look,  and  he  found  that  as  the  dog 
breathed  and  the  candle  burnt  the  portion  of  oxygen  that  was 
contained  in  the  air  shut  up  in  the  oven,  the  dog  and  the  candle 
became  weaker  and  weaker,  until  they  both  expired  at  the  same 
time.  Oxygen  is  one  of  the  most  inflammable,  as  well  as  useful 
agents  in  nature,  being  engaged  in  many  of  her  operations. 

Carbonic  acid  gas,  or  fixed  air,  such  as  is  found  in  wells,  and  is 
given  off  from  burning  coal,  is  equally  as  fatal  to  life,  and  hence, 
in  this  coal-burning  age,  people,  who  burn  it  in  close  rooms, 
should  be  very  particular  about  going  to  bed  when  it  is  burning, 
as  persons  have  lost  their  lives  by  the  pipe  becoming  a  little 
detached. 

In  regard  to  oxygen  and  carbonic  acid  gas,  there  is  a  beautiful 
reciprocity  between  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms.  The 
leaves  which  are  the  lungs  of  trees  and  plants,  breathe  on  one 
side,  carbonic  acid  gas,  which  is  thrown  out  from  the  lungs  of 
animals ;  and  they  throw  out,  on  the  other  side,  oxygen  which  is 
breathed  in  by  the  lungs  of  animals.  Hence  it  is  healthy  to  have 
living  trees  and  plants  around  you,  and  it  is  the  grand  cause  why 
the  country  is  so  much  more  healthy  than  a  city.  When  we  enter 
a  large  garden  in  full  bloom,  we  feel  exhilarated;  not  alone  be- 
cause the  eye  is  delighted,  for  a  blind  man  could  feel  it;  but  be- 
cause the  flowers  are  constantly  throwing  out  oxygen,  which  the 
lungs  breathe.  In  this  reciprocity  between  plants  and  animals, 
nature  works  good  to  both.  That  which  is  fatal  to  the  one,  she 
makes  the  life  of  the  other.  How  strange,  too,  that  by  combina- 
tion, she  often  makes  two  deadly  poisons  agreeable,  harmless,  and 
even  necessary  to  man.  Muriatic  acid  and  soda,  though  poi- 
sonous when  taken  alone,  form,  when  combined,  our  common 
table  salt.  How  curious,  also,  is  the  fact,  that  some  of  the  sub- 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORI)    BARD.  491 

stances  in  nature,  the  most  different  in  appearance,  texture,  color, 
weight,  hardness,  and  indeed  in  every  respect,  are  composed  of 
the  same  material?  Who,  if  he  did  not  know,  would  suppose  the 
diamond,  raw  cotton,  and  charcoal  to  be  the  same?  Yet,  they 
are  all  the  same  carbon.  The  only  difference  is,  that  the  diamond 
is  pure  crystallized  carbon,  while  raw  cotton  and  charcoal  are 
mixed  with  earth.  The  diamond,  when  burnt,  leaves  no  ashes; 
while  the  earthly  parts  of  cotton  and  charcoal  are  left  behind,  after 
combustioa.  Powder  is  made  of  cotton,  because  it  is  the  same  as 
the  charcoal,  that  usually  forms  one  of  the  ingredients  of  gun- 
powder. And  the  carbon  being  in  a  more  minute  state  of  division 
in  the  cotton  than  in  the  charcoal,  it  is  so  much  the  more  powerful. 
Another  of  the  curiosities  of  science  is  exhibited  in  the  pressure 
of  the  air  we  breathe.  Until  the  invention  of  the  air-pump,  man- 
kind had  no  knowledge  of  its  pressure,  or  why  the  cider  rises 
through  a  long  tube  into  the  mouth,  when  one  end  is  placed  in 
the  barrel  and  the  other  sucked.  The  air-pump  proves,  that  the 
atmosphere  presses  on  every  thing,  with  a  weight  equal  to  nearly 
fifteen  pounds  to  every  square  inch,  consequently,  if  we  calculate 
the  number  of  square  inches  on  the  body  of  a  man  of  ordinary 
size,  we  shall  find  that  he  sustains  a  pressure  from  the  air  equal 
to  about  thirty-two  thousand  pounds.  Were  it  not  for  the  elasticity 
of  the  flesh  and  the  air  within  him,  a  pressure  of  thirty-two  thou- 
sand pounds  would  crush  him  to  an  atom ;  but  the  force  of  the 
one,  just  counterbalances  that  of  the  other.  Before  the  dis- 
covery of  the  air-pump,  such  operations  as  sucking  cider  through 
a  tube,  sucking  the  breast,  &c.,  were  explained  by  the  word  suction, 
which  was  a  word  without  meaning,  for,  not  knowing  the  cause, 
if  you  asked  what  is  suction?  the  answer  would  have  been,  "it  is 
suction."  This  is  like  the  reasoning  of  some  people;  a  thing  is 
so,  because  it  is  so.  If  we  fill  a  wine-glass  with  water,  and,  after 
placing  a  piece  of  paper  on  it  large  enough  to  cover  the  top  and 
project  a  little,  we  turn  it  up,  the  pressure  of  the  air  against  the 
paper  will  support  the  water.  The  glass  and  paper  should  be 
firmly  pressed  against  the  hand  after  being  turned  downward,  so 
as  to  exclude  all  air  before  the  hand  is  removed.  The  fly,  in 
walking  on  the  ceiling  by  forming  a  vacuum  in  its  feet,  is  sustained 
by  the  pressure  of  the  air.  The  child,  -when  it  sucks  the  breast, 
unconsciously,  by  instinct,  performs  a  philosophical  experiment, 
by  forming  a  vacuum,  or  by  withdrawing  all  air  from  the  mouth, 
and  the  pressure  of  the  air  on  the  breast,  forces  the  milk  to  fill  up 
the  space  in  his  mouth. 


492  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

But  one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  in  science  is  that  operation 
of  the  air  by  which  all  sound  is  produced.  When  we  consider 
that  sound,  and  all  the  enrapturing  variety  of  music,  is  nothing 
more  than  little  waves  made  in  the  air,  such  as  are  made  in  water 
when  a  pebble  is  dropped  into  it,  one  circular  wave  or  undulation 
succeeding  another,  we  are  astonished.  Really,  there  is  no  sound 
in  nature,  but  these  little  waves  or  undulations,  when  they  strike 
on  the  drum  of  the  ear,  create  a  sensation  which  is  conveyed  to 
the  brain,  by  the  auditory  nerve,  and  which  we  call  sound.  When 
you  strike  a  bell,  the  particles  of  the  metal  vibrate  or  quiver,  as 
you  may  perceive  by  placing  your  hand  on  it,  and  that  quivering 
is  imparted  to  the  air,  which  goes  off  in  circular  waves  until  it 
reaches  the  ear;  precisely  as  the  waves  go  off  to  the  shore,  when 
a  pebble  is  dropped  in  the  water.  These  waves  of  air  travel  at 
the  rate  of  eleven  hundred  and  forty-two  feet  in  a  second,  or  about 
thirteen  miles  in  a  minute,  in  all  directions.  If,  in  their  course, 
they  strike  against  a  smooth  wall  or  rock,  they  rebound  and  fly 
back,  and  this  we  call  an  echo;  for  sound  is  reflected  as  well  as 
light.  It  is  by  reflection  from  side  to  side  of  the  trumpet,  that  the 
sound  is  so  vastly  increased.  The  air-pum.p  has  proved  the  fact, 
that  where  there  is  no  air  there  is  no  sound.  If  a  bell  be  placed 
under  the  receiver  of  an  air-pump,  and  the  air  be  pumped  out,  no 
sound  falls  on  the  ear,  though  you  see  the  tongue  strike  the  bell. 
In  proportion  as  the  air  is  admitted,  the  sound  increases.  Who 
would  suppose  that  all  the  delightful  harmony  of  music  is  mere 
illusion;  that  it  is  nothing  more  than  this  quivering  in  the  air, 
which,  in  itself,  can  have  no  sound,  independently  of  the  ear? 
Thus,  by  the  peculiar  construction  of  the  ear,  man  is  made  to 
enjoy  that  which  really  does  not  exist.  This  is  a  strong  proof  of 
the  existence  of  a  Superior  Intelligence,  who  has  so  beautifully 
adapted  every  thing.  The  illusion  of  light  is  equally  as  great,  for 
we  suppose  that  we  really  see  an  object,  when  we  only  see  the 
image  formed  on  the  back  of  the  eye.  This  is  proven  by  the 
reflecting  telescope,  in  which  a  mirror  stands  between  the  eye  and 
the  object  we  look  at.  In  this  case  we  only  see  the  image  of  the 
image  of  the  object,  yet  the  image  is  "so  like  the  object,  that  we 
believe  we  really  see  the  object. 

The  atmospheric  air,  independently  of  its  supporting  life,  is  of 
more  importance  than,  at  first  view,  we  would  suppose.  Not  only 
is  it  necessary  to  sound,  but  to  sight.  Were  there  no  atmosphere, 
admitting  that  we  could  live,  there  would  be  no  sound.  We  might 
strike  a  bell  or  blow  an  instrument,  but  no  music  would  be  heard; 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  493 

and,  in  like  manner,  were  there  no  atmosphere,  we  could  see  no- 
thing, only  when  placed  in  the  sunbeams.  By  the  aid  of  the 
atmosphere,  every  thing  around  us  reflects  light,  and  were  there 
no  atmosphere,  we  should  be  in  pitch  darkness,  only  when  in  the 
direct  rays  of  the  sun.  Take,  for  example,  a  room,  the  walls  of 
which  are  black,  and  white-wash  it;  you  will  find  that  it  is  far 
lighter  than  it  was  before,  on  account  of  the  light  being  reflected 
from  all  sides. 

Colors  form  the  greatest  illusion  to  which  our  senses  are  subject. 
We  look  at  a  leaf,  and  pronounce  it  green;  and  at  another  object, 
and  pronounce  it  red;  yet  neither  of  them  have  any  color.  A 
body  appears  of  this,  that  or  the  other  color,  according  as  they 
absorb  and  reflect  the  rays  of  light.  There  are  but  seven  primitive 
colors  in  nature,  as  is  proven  by  the  prism,  which  dissects  a  ray 
of  light;  and  there  are  but  seven  sounds.  If  we  make  other 
colors,  it  is  by  the  mixture  of  those  seven,  and  the  notes  of  the 
piano  are  only  a  repetition  of  the  seven  sounds,  the  eighth  or 
octave  not  being  the  same,  more  sharp  or  flat,  as  the  first,  and  so 
of  the  rest.  Some  bodies  will  absorb  all  the  rays  but  the  red, 
which  they  reflect  to  the  eye,  and  they  appear  to  be  red.  Some 
will  absorb  all  but  the  yellow  and  blue,  and  they  appear  green.  If 
I  look  at  my  hat,  it  absorbs  all  the  rays  and  appears  black;  for,  as 
the  presence  of  all  the  rays  in  proper  proportions  make  white,  so 
the  absence  of  all  constitutes  black.  This  is  not  mere  conjecture; 
it  has  been  proven  by  experiment.  Sir  Isaac  Newton  painted  the 
seven  primitive  colors  on  a  wheel,  as  nearly  in  proportion  as  he 
could,  and  when  he  turned  the  wheel  with  great  velocity,  so  as  to 
blend  them  in  the  eye,  the  appearance  was  nearly  white,  and 
would  have  been  perfectly  so,  could  he  have  hit  upon  the  exact 
proportions  in  which  they  appear  when  refracted  by  a  prism.  It 
is  curious  to  talk  of  dissecting  a  ray  of  light,  but  the  prism,  which 
is  nothing  more  than  a  triangular  or  three  square  piece  of  glass, 
does  it  more  completely  than  a  knife  may  dissect  a  dead  body. 

From  what  I  have  said,  it  appears  that  we  do  not  see  the  object, 
but  only  the  picture  of  it  in  the  eye.  That  this  picture  is  formed, 
may  be  proven,  as  follows:  Take  a  beef's  eye  from  the  head;  dis- 
sect off"  the  sclerotic  coat,  or  covering  on  the  back  part,  just  so  as 
to  expose  the  clear  transparent  humor,  and  then  place  a  piece  of 
oiled  paper  against  the  back  part.  By  holding  the  front  part  of 
the  eye  to  any  object,  you  will  see  a  picture  of  it,  upside  down, 
on  the  oiled  paper.  Hence  it  seems  that  we  see  every  thing  top- 
sy-turvy or  upside  down,  but  judgment  soon  learns  to  correct  this. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

It  also  appears,  from  what  has  been  said,  that  no  object  at  which 
we  look,  has  any  color.  It  appears  to  have,  because  it  reflects 
whatever  color  it  appears  to  have,  to  the  eye.  This  is  hard  to 
swallow,  by  the  mind  that  is  but  little  acquainted  with  science, 
but  by  reflecting  on  the  subject,  it  is  apparent.  If  a  body  has  a 
color,  removing  that  body  from  one  place  to  another  will  not  de- 
stroy that  color.  You  have,  no  doubt,  seen  something  shining  in 
the  sand  with  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  when  you  went  to  it, 
you  found  it  to  be  nothing  but  a  piece  of  colorless  glass.  Where 
are  the  colors?  It  had  them,  you  thought,  but  they  are  gone. 
The  reason  is,  that  at  a  certain  angle  with  the  eye,  the  piece  of 
glass  reflected  the  rainbow  colors,  which  it  would  not  do  in  any 
other  direction.  The  rainbow  is  an  example  of  the  same.  At  a 
certain  angle,  the  rays  of  the  sun  fall  on  the  drops  of  water  in  the 
cloud,  and  they  reflect  certain  colors  to  the  eye;  but  so  soon  as 
the  angle  changes,  the  rainbow  colors  are  gone.  Now  if  the 
colors  were  in  the  drops  of  water,  they  would  remain  there. 
Some  bodies,  as  my  handkerchief,  for  example,  are  always  reflect- 
ing the  red  ray,  and  consequently  it  always  appears  to  be  red. 
Altering  the  texture  or  nature  of  a  body,  will  alter  its  color;  be- 
cause the  change  causes  it  to  reflect  another  color.  If  you  pound 
a  piece  of  glass  to  powder,  it  has  altogether  a  different  appear- 
ance, as  well  as  color,  and  instead  of  being  transparent,  becomes 
opaque.  All  the  colors,  instead  of  passing  through  it  as  before, 
are  now  reflected,  and  it  becomes  white.  In  bleaching  a  piece  of 
yellow  wax,  the  change  it  undergoes,  from  the  chemical  effects  of 
air  and  light,  causes  it  to  reflect  all  the  colors,  instead  of  the  yel- 
low one,  arid  it  appears  white. 

The  reason  that  we  see  through  some  bodies  and  not  through 
others,  is  one  of  the  curiosities  of  science.  As  we  see  only  by 
means  of  the  rays  of  light,  wherever  a  ray  goes  the  sight  can 
follow.  Light  travels  in  straight  lines  from  the  sun  to  the  earth,  a 
distance  of  ninety-five  millions  of  miles,  in  eight  minutes  and 
some  seconds.  It  never  travels  in  a  curved  or  crooked  line;  for 
if  it  did,  we  could  see  through  a  bent  gun-barrel.  All  bodies,  the 
texture  of  which  is  such  as  to  let  it  pass  through  in  straight  lines, 
we  can  see  through,  such  as  glass.  But  those  bodies,  the  parti- 
cles of  which  are  disposed  in  crooked  lines,  we  cannot  see 
through,  because  the  rays  of  light  cannot  enter  them. 

There  are  so  many  curiosities  in  science,  that  I  know  not  which 
to  select.  In  motion,  there  are  some  things  which  appear  very 
strange  to  the  mind.  As,  for  example,  the  fact  that  velocity  is 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  495 

equivalent  to  both  weight  and  hardness.  If  a  body  weighing  one 
ton,  move  with  twice  the  velocity  of  another  weighing  two  tons, 
it  will  strike  a  bridge  with  the  same  force.  If  a  soft  body  be 
moved  with  great  velocity,  it  will  have  the  properties  of  a  hard 
one.  To  illustrate  this:  if  you  put  an  inch  of  candle  into  a  mus- 
ket, with  a  heavy  charge  of  powder,  it  will  go  through  a  plank,  as 
a  leaden  ball  would.  A  leaden  ball,  with  a  heavy  charge,  will  go 
through  a  broad-axe.  This  seems  strange,  but  it  is  true,  and  I  will 
make  it  more  plain  that  velocity  makes  up  for  the  want  of  hard- 
ness. If  you  take  a  piece  of  molasses  candy,  or  shoe-maker's 
wax,  and  press  gently  on  it,  it  will  yield  or  bend  any  way,  but  if 
you  give  it  a  sudden  jerk,  it  snaps  like  a  pipe-stem.  A  piece  of 
wax  that  is  quite  soft  in  your  hand,  if  thrown  with  all  your 
strength  against  the  wall,  will  fly  into  pieces.  I  remember  to 
have  seen  an  account,  some  years  ago,  of  a  machinist  in  New 
England,  who  wished  to  cut  a  saw-blade  in  two,  without  taking 
the  temper  out,  and  having  some  knowledge  of  the  effect  of  velo- 
city, he  cut  a  round  piece  from  a  stove-pipe,  which  he  unrolled, 
and  placed  it  in  a  lathe  that  went  with  great  velocity.  To  his 
astonishment,  when  he  presented  the  saw-blade  to  it,  a  roll  of  fire 
encircled  it,  while  it  went  through  the  saw-blade  as  if  it  had  been 
cheese.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  velocity  with  which  lightning  flies, 
that  gives  it  such  immense  power  in  rending  trees.  But,  from  my 
own  experiments,  I  know  that  a  man  might  as  well  be  shot  with 
a  piece  of  candle  as  with  a  leaden  bullet,  in  regard  to  the  fatality. 
It  is  strange,  that  when  a  man  is  moving  on  a  car  or  vessel,  that 
his  motion  continues  after  he  has  once  received  it,  whether  he 
touches  the  moving  body  or  not.  When  a  car  is  running  with 
great  velocity,  we  would  suppose,  that  if  a  man  were  to  jump  up, 
that  the  car  would  run  from  under  him  ;  but  this  is  not  the  case  ; 
for,  if  he  were  standing  within  one  foot  of  the  edge  of  the  hind 
part  of  the  car,  and  it  were  possible  for  him  to  jump  twenty  or  a 
hundred  feet  high,  his  motion  received  from  the  car  would  con- 
tinue, and  he  would  come  down  on  the  very  spot  from  which  he 
jumped.  I  have  amused  myself,  when  sailing  upon  the  Delaware 
Bay,  by  going  up  to  the  mast-head  and  holding  out  a  ball,  which 
fell  on  the  deck  just  as  far  from  the  mast  as  I  held  it  when  I  let  it 
fall.  When  we  have  received  the  motion  of  a  car,  or  any  thing 
else,  we  cannot  divest  ourselves  of  it,  which  fact  I  will  illustrate 
more  plainly  to  the  reader's  mind:  When  a  horse  runs  away,  and 
is  suddenly  stopped  by  falling,  his  rider,  having  received  his  mo- 
tion, continues  it,  and  pitches  some  distance  over  the  horse's 


496  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

head.  This  is  exemplified  when  a  man  is  standing  in  a  boat, 
which  suddenly  strikes  the  wharf:  the  motion  of  the  man  con- 
tinues, and  he  is  thrown  on  the  wharf. 

But,  perhaps,  there  are  no  curiosities  in  Optics,  Pneumatics, 
Acoustics,  or  Mechanics,  greater  than  those  in  Hydraulics  and 
Hydrostatics.  Some  things  relative  to  water  strike  the  mind  with 
wonder,  among  which  is  the  fact,  that  a  quantity  of  water,  however 
small,  may  be  made  to  counterbalance  a  quantity  however  large. 
A  portion  of  water  may  be  made  to  produce  in  one  way,  a  power 
hundreds  of  times  greater  than  in  another.  The  force  of  water  is 
in  proportion  to  its  height,  for  according  to  the  height  of  a  column 
of  water,  without  any  regard  to  the  size  of  the  column  or  the 
quantity,  will  be  its  pressure.  This  has  been  called  the  hydrostatic 
paradox.  If  a  hogshead  be  filled  with  water,  and  a  tube,  not 
larger  than  a  goose-quill,  be  inserted  through  the  head  of  the 
hogshead,  which  tube  shall  rise  as  high  as  a  house;  if  water  be 
poured  down  that  tube,  it  will,  before  it  is  full,  burst  the  hogshead, 
and  scatter  the  water  with  astonishing  force.  As  I  said  before, 
the  pressure  is  in  proportion  to  the  height  of  the  column  of  water, 
without  regard  to  the  quantity.  On  this  principle  the  hydraulic 
press  has  been  made  in  which  a  small  quantity  of  water  exerts  an 
immense  power,  which  will  bend  bars  of  iron  as  if  they  were  straws. 

A  body,  that  weighs  many  pounds  in  the  air,  may,  if  weighed 
in  water,  weigh  nothing.  A  live  fish,  if  weighed  in  water,  weighs 
nothing.  Weighing  a  body  in  water  is  called  specific  gravity,  and 
was  discovered  by  Archimedes.  King  Hiero  of  Syracuse,  had  a 
golden  crown  made,  and,  though  he  believed  that  the  goldsmith 
had  cheated  him,  by  mixing  alloy  with  the  gold,  he  knew  of  no 
means  by  which  he  could  discover  the  truth.  Archimedes  weighed 
the  crown  in  air,  and  then  in  water,  by  which  means  he  found 
that  the  king  had  been  cheated.  All  bodies  of  the  same  size, 
when  put  into  water  displace  an  equal  quantity  of  water,  the 
weight  of  which  quantity  will  be  taken  off  the  weight  of  the  body, 
when  weighed  in  water;  that  is,  a  body  will  weigh  just  as  much 
less,  when  weighed  in  water,  than  it  does  when  weighed  in  air, 
as  the  quantity  of  water  would  weigh  that  the  body  displaces  when 
it  is  put  in  the  water.  Suppose  I  weigh  a  square  inch  of  gold  and 
a  square  inch  of  brass  in  water;  they  will  both  displace  the  same 
quantity  of  water,  and  we  will  suppose  the  square  inch  of  water 
to  weigh  one  ounce,  which  is  to  be  taken  from  the  weight  of  each 
of  the  metals  when  weighed  in  water.  Now  if  the  gold  weighed 
eighteen  ounces  in  air,  and  the  brass  twelve,  the  brass,  in  being 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  497 

wp.ighcd  in  water,  will  have  lost  one-twelfth  of  its  weight,  while 
the  gold  will  have  lost  only  the  eighteenth  of  its  weight.  Thus 
the  shrewd  mind  of  Archimedes  was  too  fast  for  the  goldsmith. 
He  weighed  the  crown  in  air,  and  then  took  an  equal  weight  of 
pure  gold.  When  he  weighed  them  both  in  water,  he  found  that 
the  crown  was  not  near  as  heavy  as  the  pure  gold,  because  it  had 
lost  a  greater  proportion  of  its  weight,  on  account  of  the  alloy  in 
it.  By  this  means  he  found  that  much  alloy  was  in  the  crown. 
It  was  proven  so  positively,  that  the  poor  goldsmith  could  not 
deny  it 

Many  persons  suppose  quicksilver  to  be  the  heaviest  of  metals; 
but  gold  is  far  heavier,  and  platina  is  heavier  than  gold.  There  is 
a  mixture  of  three  metals,  I  think  it  is  lead,  bismuth,  and  tin, 
which  will  melt  at  a  less  temperature  than  boiling  water,  and  spoons 
that  are  made  of  it,  will  melt  when  put  into  a  cup  of  tea,  though 
any  of  the  metals  require  two  or  three  times  the  heat  to  melt  them. 
If  a  piece  of  glass  be  melted,  and  let  fall  into  cold  water,  it  forms 
a  small  globe,  with  a  little  drop  at  one  end.  If  that  small  end  be 
knocked  off,  or  any  portion  of  it  be  made  rough  with  a  file,  in  a 
few  minutes  it  will  explode  with  the  sound  of  a  musket,  and  fall 
into  an  impalpable  powder.  It  is  called  Prince  Rupert's  drop,  and 
the  effect,  I  have  no  doubt,  is  produced  by  electricity,  that  won- 
derful magic  agent  of  nature. 

I  had  intended  to  speak  of  the  wonders  of  the  sciences  of 
astronomy,  of  electricity,  galvanism,  magnetism,  &c.,  but  my  limits 
will  not  permit,  and,  therefore,  I  shall  only  glance  at  those  which 
offer  themselves  to  my  mind.  When  we  think  of  the  amazing 
extent  of  the  universe,  and  the  immense  distances  of  those  globes 
that  twinkle  on  our  eyes,  our  minds  are  filled  with  wonder  at  the 
sublimity  of  that  power  who  created  them,  and  set  them  in  motion. 
Not  more  than  a  thousand  stars  can  be  seen  by  the  eye  at  a  time, 
on  the  clearest  night,  but  the  telescope  has  brought  millions  into 
view.  It  has  been  computed,  that  the  nearest  fixed  star  is  twenty 
billions  of  miles  from  the  earth,  at  the  least,  and  that  a  ball  travel- 
ing at  the  rate  of  five  hundred  miles  an  hour,  would  require  four 
millions  five  hundred  thousand  years  to  come  from  one  of  them 
to  the  earth.  It  would  require  even  light,  which  comes  to  us  from 
the  sun  in  little  more  than  eight  minutes,  three  years  to  traverse 
the  distance.  That  the  fixed  stars  are  immensely  distant,  is  proven 
by  the  fact,  that  though  Dr.  Hershell  looked  at  them  through  his 
great  telescope  magnifying  six  thousand  times,  they  appeared  no 
larger  than  to  the  naked  eye.  By  the  same  magnifying  power  on 
63 


498  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  moon,  which  is  only  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  miles 
from  the  earth,  he  could  plainly  see  her  mountains.  That  the 
fixed  stars  must  be  immensely  large,  and  shine  by  their  own  light, 
is  proven  by  the  fact,  that  no  body,  shining  by  reflected  light, 
could  be  seen  at  the  distance  they  are. 

When  we  consider  that  every  one  of  the  fixed  stars  is  a  sun, 
like  ours,  around  which  other  systems  of  planets  revolve,  we  are 
lost  in  astonishment  at  the  Power  that  created  them. 

The  moon  is  to  us  the  most  interesting  body  in  the  heavens,  the 
sun  excepted,  because,  being  the  nearest,  it  appears  the  largest. 
That  the  moon  and  all  the  satellites,  as  well  as  the  primary  planets, 
are  inhabited  by  some  kind  of  beings,  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  a 
doubt;  for  we  cannot  with  reason  suppose  that  all  those  immense 
bodies  were  made  to  shine  merely  as  specks  on  this  globe,  when 
one  of  them,  Jupiter,  alone  is  twelve  hundred  times  as  large  as 
the  earth. 

The  observations  made  on  the  moon,  since  the  improvement  of 
the  telescope,  go  to  prove  that  she  is  inhabited.  She  constantly 
attends  the  earth  in  her  revolution  round  the  sun;  but,  unlike  the 
earth,  she  only  revolves  on  her  axis  once  during  her  circuit  round 
the  earth;  consequently,  one  day  and  night  to  the  people  on  the 
moon,  is  equal  to  twenty-nine  and  a  half  of  our  days.  Owing  to 
her  revolving  just  once  on  her  axis  while  going  round  the  earth, 
but  one  side  of  her  is  seen  by  us.  The  diameter  of  the  moon  is 
only  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  eighty  miles,  while  that  of  the 
earth  is  between  seven  and  eight  thousand. 

I  will  here  make  a  digression,  for  the  purpose  of  speaking  of 
one  circumstance  which  is  understood  by  few  persons,  namely, 
why  the  calendar  had  to  be  altered  from  old  style  to  new  style; 
and  why  we  have  what  is  called  Leap  Year.  The  reason  is  this. 
The  time  that  the  earth  requires  to  go  round  the  sun,  we  call  a 
year. — Well,  the  earth  is  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  five 
hours  and  forty-nine  minutes  in  going  round  the  sun.  Now,  if  the 
time  were  exact,  there  would  be  no  difficulty;  but  as  there  are  five 
hours  and  eleven  minutes  odd  time,  that  time  was  lost,  and  in  the 
course  of  centuries  it  amounted  to  a  considerable  period.  This 
odd  time  was  added,  when  the  new  style  was  made.  In  the  course 
of  time  the  style  will  have  to  be  altered  again,  and  instead  of  set- 
ing  it  forward,  as  before,  it  will  have  to  be  set  back,  because,  in 
making  the  leap  year,  we  now  calculate  that  the  earth  is  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  days  and  six  hours  in  going  round  the  sun, 
and  as  that  six  hours  in  every  four  years  amount  to  one  day,  which 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORl)    BARD.  499 

day,  as  February  is  the  shortest  month,  we  add  to  that  month, 
every  four  years.  But  the  reader  will  perceive  that  we  are  gaining  a 
little  time  now,  as  the  odd  five  hours  and  forty-nine  minutes,  in  the 
earth's  revolution,  lack  eleven  minutes  of  being  six  hours;  but,  as 
the  time  of  the  earth's  revolution  is  so  uneven,  it  is  calculated  as 
well  as  it  can  be.  In  about  three  hundred  years  we  shall  be  about 
one  month  too  fast,  and  the  world  will  have  to  be  set  back  a  little. 
However,  we  shall  have  no  hand  in  the  matter  at  that  time,  for  we 
shall  have  "gone  away." 

But  to  return  to  the  moon.  The  earth  shines  to  the  people  of 
the  moon,  with  a  disk,  or  face,  thirteen  times  as  large  as  that  of 
the  moon  is  to  us.  It  must  be  a  pleasant  jaunt  to  the  people  on 
the  side  of  the  moon  always  turned  from  us,  to  come  round  and 
take  a  peep  at  our  earth,  which  is  the  most  splendid  object  in  the 
heavens  to  them.  The  scenery  of  the  moon  is  very  sublime,  the 
mountains  being  from  a  furlong  to  five  miles  in  height.  Dr.  Her- 
schell,  from  observation,  was  satisfied  that  there  is  fire  in  the  moon, 
as  well  as  tremendous  volcanoes.  As  yet  no  seas  or  bodies  of 
water  have  been  discovered  on  the  moon,  and  though  Shroeter 
declares  she  has  an  atmosphere,  there  has  been  discovered  no 
evidence  of  snow,  rain  or  clouds. 

I  have  no  doubt,  when  the  telescope  shall  have  vastly  increased 
in  power,  by  perhaps  the  union  of  the  microscopic  powers  with 
it,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  moon  will  be  brought  into  view,  and 
that  great  question  settled;  but  alas,  we  shall  not  be  here  to  see 
the  apes  and  man-bats  of  the  moon. 

There  is  another  great  curiosity  in  science  I  desire  to  mention; 
but  I  am  admonished  that  I  have  already  overrun  my  limits.  If 
the  curiosities  of  science  are  well  received  by  my  readers,  and 
they  desire  other  dishes  served  up  to  them  of  still  greater  and 
more  original  curiosities  of  science,  I  shall  occasionally  give  them 
a  taste  of  the  wonders  of  electricity,  galvanism,  and  electro-mag- 
netism, with  some  perfectly  original  ideas  on  electricity  as  the 
grand  agent  of  life,  heat,  motion,  &c. 


500  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BAKU. 


No.    II. 

BEHOLD  great  Franklin,  to  whom  pow'r  is  giy'n, 
To  wield  the  dreadful  thunderbolt  of  Heaven  ! 
Like  the  immortal  Jove,  he  dares  to  rise, 
And  seize  the  lightning  leaping  through  the  skies  ; 
Harmless  he  holds  in  frailest  bonds  a  pow'r, 
That  shakes  the  globe  in  tempest's  awful  hour; 
In  silken  chains,  he  leads  along  his  path 
That  mighty  pow'r  that  rends  the  oak  in  wrath. 
And  see  bold  Morse— far  swifter  than  the  wind — 
Bid*  it  roll  on  the  chariot  of  the  mind  ; 
No  more  are  time  and  space  on  Nature's  chart,— 
Man  speaks  to  man,  a  thousand  miles  apart. 

)N  my  last  essay  it  was  stated,  that  Oxygen  is  one  of  the 
most  combustible  gasses  in  Nature.  By  what  means  the 
error  occurred,  I  know  not;  but  it  is  well  known  that 
oxygen  instead  of  being  one  of  the  most  combustible,  is 
a  great  supporter  of  combustion,  as  may  be  seen  when  any  thing 
is  burnt  in  it;  as  for  instance,  a  piece  of  iron  wire.  A  small  iron 
wire  will  burn  in  the  flame  of  a  candle,  but  when  it  is  burnt  in  a 
jar  of  oxygen,  or  a  stream  of  oxygen  is  directed  upon  it,  it  burns 
with  far  greater  brilliance.  One  of  the  greatest  degrees  of  heat 
that  can  be  produced,  is  by  a  stream  of  oxygen  and  hydrogen 
gasses.  Another  by  concave  mirrors.  Another  by  electricity. 

But  my  principal  object  in  this  essay,  is  to  speak  of  electricity; 
and  to  give  my  own  ideas  concerning  it.  Electricity  is  not  only 
one  of  the  most  curious,  most  wonderful  agents  of  nature,  but,  in 
my  humble  opinion,  it  is  the  great,  the  grand  agent,  by  which  her 
wonderful  works  are  carried  on,  or,  I  should  say,  her  operations. 
The  word  Nature,  which  I  use,  the  reader  may  read  God ;  for  I 
use  it  as  a  mere  symbol  or  synonym  of  that  glorious  Being,  whose 
power  and  glory  are  every  where  visible,  whether  I  see  them  in  a 
plant  or  in  a  planet,  in  a  worm  or  in  a  world.  I  see  evidences  of 
his  wonderful  workmanship  in  the  brilliant  rainbow,  and  the  beau- 
tiful butterfly  and  flower — I  see  his  glory  in  the  beams  of  the  sun, 
and  hear  his  voice  in  the  roar  of  the  artillery  of  Heaven. 

It  is  my  opinion,  and  the  reader  may  take  it  for  what  it  is  worth, 
that  electricity  will  yet  be  discovered  to  be  the  grand  agent  of 
nature,  by  which  heat,  light,  motion,  and  life  itself,  are  produced. 
Without  some  degree  of  heat  there  can  be  no  motion;  and  with- 
out heat,  there  can  be  no  light;  and  without  heat  and  motion, 
there  can  be  no  life.  I  am  aware  that,  according  to  a  newly 
received  doctrine  in  philosophy,  some  of  the  rays  of  the  sun  are 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  501 

said  to  be  rays  of  heat  alone,  and  others  of  light  alone;  but  I  do 
not  believe  a  word  of  it. 

Well,  if,  according  to  the  assertion  I  have  made,  light,  motion 
and  life,  are  dependent  upon  heat,  in  what  direction  afe  we  to 
search  for  the  origin  of  heat?  Electricity  is  the  cause  of  heat, 
light,  motion,  life;  and  life  is  the  offspring  of  heat,  and  motion, 
for  whatever  has  in  it  neither  heat  nor  motion,  has  no  life.  I 
speak  not  of  latent  heat. 

Combustion  is  but  little  understood  by  philosophers,  high  as  are 
their  pretensions  of  having  searched  into  the  secret.  That  fire,  or 
wood,  or  coal,  or  other  matter  in  a  state  of  combustion,  is  an  elec- 
trical action,  I  have  not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt;  and  I  have  as 
little  doubt  that,  when  the  science  of  electricity  shall  have  become 
as  thoroughly  explored  as  some  other  sciences  have  been,  it  will 
be  discovered  to  be  the  cause  of  combustion,  or  of  the  burning  of 
a  piece  of  wood,  as  well  as  of  the  chemical  decomposition  of  sub- 
stances, and  numerous  other  operations. 

Galvanism  is  generally  treated  as  a  separate  science  from  that 
of  electricity;  but  they  are  identically  the  same,  differing  not  so 
much  in  the  phenomena  they  produce,  as  in  the  modes  by  which 
they  are  brought  into  action.  The  mode  of  producing  electricity, 
is  more  mechanical  and  less  chemical  than  that  by  which  galvan- 
ism is  produced;  but  galvanism  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  elec- 
tricity. But,  says  one,  they  appear  in  many  respects  different. 
Granted.  But  how  different  do  many  other  things  in  nature 
appear?  How  different  does  combustion  appear,  when  different 
bodies  are  being  decomposed.  And  how  different  does  light  ap- 
pear, particularly  in  the  direct  and  reflected  rays  of  the  sun  ?  The 
chemical  decomposition  of  metals  is  caused  by  electricity,  as  the 
decomposition  of  wood  is  in  combustion ;  and  in  the  former,  it 
shows  itself  in  the  character  of  galvanism.  In  the  decomposition 
of  zinc  and  copper,  it  reveals  itself;  but  does  not  show  itself  in 
the  decomposition  of  other  metals  so  much,  neither  does  it  do  so 
in  the  combustion  of  wood  or  coal;  but  nevertheless  it  is  there, 
and  it  is  the  grand  cause,  producing  at  the  same  time,  heat,  light, 
motion;  two  of  which  are  the  constituents,  and  the  other  neces- 
sary to  life. 

Magnetism,  or  attraction,  is  evidently  one  of  the  attributes  of 
electricity;  for  wherever  electricity  is,  there  also  is  the  magnetic 
or  attractive  property  or  power  to  be  found.  From  a  parity  of 
reasoning,  then,  it  is  my  belief,  that  the  planets,  yea,  all  creation, 
is  moved  by  electricity,  and  had  I  the  time  and  the  tin  requisite,  I 


502  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

could  construct  a  machine  to  exemplify  the  fact.  In  the  first 
place,  I  would  construct  a  large  hollow  globe  of  copper,  to  repre- 
sent the  sun  in  the  centre,  which  should  be  charged  positively  and 
powerfully  with  eleptricity.  Around  that,  at  different  distances, 
should  be  gutters  of  glass,  or  some  other  insulating  matter,  for 
metallic  balls  to  roll  in,  but  so  constructed,  that  when  the  ball 
should  be  attracted,  it  could  not  fly  to  the  large  copper  ball.  No\v 
it  is  well  known  that  when  a  body  is  acted  on  by  two  opposite 
forces,  and  is  at  liberty  to  move,  it  will  move  in  a  direction  be- 
tween the  two.  A  small  ball,  representing  a  planet,  would  be 
attracted  by  the  large  electrified  ball  in  the  centre,  which  would 
be  the  centripetal  force;  and  being  prevented,  by  the  glass  gutter, 
from  flying  in  a  straight  line  to  the  attracting  ball,  this  prevention 
would  represent  the  centrifugal  force;  and  the  ball  would  have  no 
alternative,  but  to  move  round.  In  this  way,  different  balls  at  dif- 
ferent distances  from  the  attracting  ball,  would  evidently  move 
with  different  velocities;  the  nearest  one  moving  rapidly,  while 
the  most  distant  one  would  move  slowly;  precisely  as  the  planets 
in  our  solar  system  are  known  to  do. 

But  not  only  do  I  believe  that  the  planets  are  moved  by  electri- 
city, but  that  all  motion  on  the  earth  is  produced  by  it;  though,  in 
many  cases,  it  may  be  so  concealed,  that  we  may  not  be  able  to 
detect  its  agency.  What  are  animals,  what  is  man  himself,  proud 
as  he  is  of  "a  little  brief  authority,"  but  electrical  machines,  which 
are  constantly  acting  or  being  acted  on?  Man  is  the  most  com- 
plete electro-magnetic  telegraph  in  the  world.  His  nerves  are  the 
wires,  and  his  brain  is  the  office  where  the  intelligence  is  received. 
If  a  pin  pierce  the  toe,  electrical  action  takes  place,  and  the  intel- 
ligence is  instantly  transmitted  along  the  nerves,  which  are  the 
wires,  to  the  brain,  which  is  the  office ;  and  there  the  mind,  which 
is  the  officer  of  the  telegraph,  is  informed  that  a  pin  has  been 
stuck  in  the  toe.  So,  when  we  feel  any  thing,  the  intelligence  or 
sensation  is  carried  by  the  nerves  to  the  brain.  When  we  look  at 
a  house  or  a  tree,  a  picture  is  formed  in  the  eye,  which  picture  is 
the  signal  given,  which  conveys  along  the  optic  nerve  to  the  brain, 
a  description  of  the  object  looked  at.  In  the  first  place,  the  rays 
of  light,  from  the  object  to  the  eye,  are  the  telegraphic  wires 
which  convey  intelligence  or  a  picture  of  the  object  to  the  eye, 
and  then  the  optic  nerve  is  the  wire  which  carries  the  intelligence 
or  a  picture  of  the  object  to  the  principal  office,  the  brain.  So, 
when  we  hear  a  bell,  the  intelligence  is  conveyed  to  the  grand 
office,  the  brain,  by  two  connected  telegraphs.  When  the  bell  is 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  503 

struck  and  quivers  or  vibrates,  that  quivering  or  vibration  is  com- 
municated to  the  air,  which  goes  off  in  little  waves  to  the  ear,  and 
these  waves  of  the  air  are  the  wires  which  convey  intelligence  to 
the  office  in  the  ear,  and  from  thence  to  the  grand  office,  the 
brain,  it  is  communicated  along  the  wire,  the  auditory  nerve. 
Man  is  a  perfect  telegraph,  because  a  knowledge  of  the  subject  is 
not  communicated  by  imperfect  signs  or  symbols;  but  a  perfect 
fac-simile  is  transmitted,  as,  for  instance,  in  the  eye ;  the  image 
is  so  like  the  object,  that  it  seems  to  be  the  object  itself. 

Now  what  but  electricity  could  transmit  intelligence  from  the 
toe  to  the  brain  in  an  instant?  Electricity  produces  light  and 
heat,  and  moves  with  the  greatest  velocity  known.  It  produces 
sound,  odor,  taste,  and,  in  short,  all  that  constitute  the  five  senses 
of  man.  That  all  solid  bodies  are  held  together,  as  well  as  thrown 
asunder,  by  electricity,  I  have  not  a  doubt;  for  solid  bodies  may 
be  diffused  into  vapor  by  passing  electricity  through  them.  To 
effect  this,  three  strips  of  window-glass  are  necessary,  three 
inches  long  and  one  wide.  Two  narrow  strips  of  gold-leaf  should 
be  placed  between  them,  so  that  the  ends  of  the  gold-leaf  may 
project  a  little  beyond  the  glass.  Then  pass  a  heavy  charge,  from 
a  large  Leyden  jar,  through  the  gold,  brass  or  copper  leaf,  and  the 
electricity  will  melt  the  leaf,  and  drive  it  into  the  surface  of  the 
glass.  The  metal  is  certainly  vaporized;  for  the  stain  is  found  in 
the  pores  of  the  glass. 

Dr.  Priestly  proved  that  electricity  expands  bodies.  He  passed 
a  stream  of  the  fluid  through  a  thermometer  tube,  filled  with  mer- 
cury, and  it  was  so  much  expanded,  that  the  glass  was  broken. 

From  the  effect  that  Galvanism  has  on  the  dead  body,  when 
bathed  in  warm  water  and  rendered  pliable,  I  have  imbibed  the 
idea  that  muscular  motion  is  produced  by  electrical  action.  For 
a  long  time,  Medical  Societies  offered  premiums  to  any  anatomist 
who  should  discover  a  passage  in  the  nerves,  through  which,  it  was 
imagined,  that  the  fluid  of  sensation  passed,  as  water  passes 
through  a  tube.  But  no  fluid,  save  the  electric,  could  be  made  to 
pass  from  the  toe  to  the  brain  in  the  time  required  for  the  trans- 
mission of  sensation.  The' action  of  Galvanic  Electricity  on  the 
dead  body  is  a  terrific  exhibition,  and  causes  even  those  who  have 
once  seen  it,  to  start  with  a  shudder.  The  dead  body  is  soaked 
in  warm  water,  until  the  muscles  and  joints  became  pliable:  in- 
cisions are  made  in  those  parts  which  it  is  desired  to  move,  and 
the  wires  of  a  galvanic  battery  are  brought  in  contact;  by  which 
means  the  dead  man  may  be  made  to  perform  all  the  motions  of 


504  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

a  living  one,  save  those  of  rising  on  the  feet  and  walking.  I  have 
seen  one,  lying  on  a  table,  made  to  rise  up  in  a  sitting  posture; 
throw  up  his  arms;  open  his  eyes,  mouth,  and  even  "  grin  a  ghastly 
smile."  I  have  seen  him  made  to  turn  his  head;  nod  assent,  and 
kick  with  considerable  force.  All  this,  to  my  mind,  points  to 
electricity  as  the  cause  of  motion  in  the  muscles  of  a  living  man. 
If  sensation  be  conveyed  to  the  brain  through  the  nerves  by  means 
of  electricity,  and  that  it  is  so,  I  have  not  a  doubt;  is  it  not  rea- 
sonable to  believe  that  the  muscles  move  by  the  same  power?  I 
have  shown  heat,  motion,  light,  sound,  taste,  smell  and  attraction, 
all  to  be  the  properties  of,  or  proceeding  from,  electricity. 

If  this  hypothesis  be  admitted,  animal  magnetism  is  accounted 
for  at  once,  or,  at  least,  is  rendered  rational;  for,  if  man  be  an 
electrical  machine,  or,  in  other  words,  if  electricity  be  the  prime 
mover  of  the  muscles,  it  is  plain  that  magnetism  may  be  easily 
brought  into  action,  inasmuch  as  the  one  is  the  property  of  the  other. 

Electricity  and  Magnetism,  in  time  past,  were  considered,  by 
philosophers,  as  two  distinct  or  independent  properties  of  powers; 
but  in  this  age  of  scientific  discovery,  philosophers  have  learned 
the  fact,  that  they  are  the  same,  or,  in  other  words,  that  Magnetism 
is  one  of  the  attributes  or  properties  of  electricity,  as  elasticity  is 
one  of  the  properties  of  steel. 

Animal  Magnetism,  or  Mesmerism,  as  it  is  called,  from  Mesmer, 
the  discoverer,  is  produced  by  friction ;  and  so  is  electricity,  as 
well  as  the  property  of  magnetism  in  a  metal.  It  is  no  more  un- 
reasonable that  magnetism  should  be  produced  by  friction  on  the 
flesh,  than  it  should  be  by  friction  on  metal.  The  blacksmith, 
when  drilling  the  tire  of  a  cart-wheel,  produces  magnetism,  by 
the  friction  of  the  drill,  and  this  is  perceived  in  the  particles  of 
the  metal  clinging  to  each  other.  If  an  iron  poker,  which  has 
been  long  used  in  the  fire,  be  placed  in  the  magnetic  perpendicular 
between  the  knees,  that  is  a  little  inclined  from  the  real  perpen- 
dicular, and  the  blade  of  a  penknife  be  rubbed  upwards  repeatedly 
against  it,  on  both  sides,  the  blade,  in  a  few  minutes,  will  acquire 
the  magnetic  property  sufficient  to  raise  a  needle  or  other  small 
pieces  of  iron  or  steel.  Any  one  can  try  this  experiment  to  his 
own  satisfaction;  and  is  it  not  as  reasonable  to  suppose  that  the 
friction  of  flesh  will  produce  a  somewhat  similar  magnetic  effect? 
I  do  not  vouch  for  all  that  is  said  of  animal  magnetism;  but  I  do 
not  doubt  that  magnetism  may  be  produced  as  aforesaid. 

Many  persons  suppose  the  sun  to  be  a  burning  body,  but  it 
is  not  so.  Light  is  one  of  the  effects  of  electricity,  and  a  dis- 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  505 

tinguished  philosopher  has  recently  discovered  that  the  violet  rays 
of  the  Solar  spectrum,  that  is,  the  violet  rays  produced  when  light 
is  refracted  by  a  prism,  when  condensed  by  a  convexed  glass,  and 
caused  to  pass  along  a  piece  of  steel,  will  communicate  to  it  the 
magnetic  power. 

I  consider,  then,  that  the  rays  of  light,  in  passing  from  the  great 
fountain  of  electricity,  the  sun,  produce,  by  their  friction  in  passing 
through  the  atmosphere,  another  property  of  electricity,  called 
caloric  or  heat.  I  consider  the  sun  as  a  vast  electrical  body,  and, 
as  has  been  observed,  electricity  has  the  power  of  producing  light, 
heat,  motion.  All  these  may  be  seen  in  action,  in  discharging 
the  electricity  contained  in  a  Leyden  jar.  It  is  by  its  inconceivable 
velocity,  that  it  rends  to  atoms  the  mighty  monarch  of  the  moun- 
tain, the  oak;  for,  as  observed  in  my  last  essay,  velocity  makes  up 
for  the  want  of  weight,  hardness  and  force.  If  a  body  weighing 
ten  pounds,  move  with  twice  the  velocity  of  another  weighing 
twenty  pounds,  it  will  have  an  equal  force. 

Electricity  is  made  apparent  by  friction  or  by  rubbing  a  body; 
and  so  is  fire  or  combustion.  When  a  cylinder  of  glass  is  turned 
against  a  pad,  electricity  is  produced,  and  with  it  comes  light, 
heat  and  motion.  Heat  may  be  apparent  without  light,  and  so 
may  motion ;  but  when  they  are  all  apparent,  electricity  is  apparent; 
hence  it  seems  that  they  are  the  different  properties  of  electricity, 
and  if  that  be  true,  electricity  is  the  cause  of  the  motion  of  the 
planets,  and  of  the  muscles  of  man,  yea,  of  life  itself;  for  life 
cannot  be,  without  heat  and  motion. 

I  have  no  doubt,  as  I  have  before  observed,  that  electricity  will 
yet  be  discovered  to  be  the  grand  cause  of  all  the  phenomena  or 
operations  of  nature.  That  it  is  the  cause  of  weight,  in  bodies, 
appears  from  the  fact,  that  weight  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  the 
force  by  which  a  body  is  attracted  to  the  centre  of  the  earth,  and 
philosophers  are  all  now  satisfied  that  magnetism  or  attraction  is 
one  of  the  properties  of  electricity,  instead  of  being  an  indepen- 
dent power,  as  it  was  believed  to  be  in  time  past. 

On  the  same  principle,  it  must  be  the  cause  of  chemical  attrac- 
tion or  the  attraction  of  cohesion:  that  power  by  which  the  parti- 
cles of  a  body  are  held  together.  Though  the  term  "attraction 
of  cohesion  "  is  used,  in  contradistinction  to  that  of  attraction  of 
gravitation,  for  the  sake  of  perspicuity,  yet  they  are  the  same;  they 
are  resolvable  into  the  same  magnetism  or  attraction ;  they  are 
the  one  property  of  electricity. 
64 


506  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

All  bodies  in  the  universe,  that  we  know  any  thing  of,  have  in 
them  a  greater  or  less  share  of  electricity;  and  it  is  by  this  un- 
equal distribution  that  the  phenomena  of  nature  are  produced. 
If  a  body  has  only  its  usual  share,  no  sensible  effects  are  pro- 
duced; but  when  it  becomes  possessed  of  more  or  less  than  its 
usual  share,  certain  phenomena  take  place;  light,  heat,  motion, 
sound,  odor  and  attraction  or  repulsion.  There  are  said  to  be  two 
kinds  of  electricity,  the  positive  ;and  the  negative;  but  they  are 
only  different  modifications  of  the  same  general  principle. 

The  velocity  of  electricity  is  beyond  comprehension.  Were  ten 
thousand  men  electrified  in  a  row,  there  could  not  be  perceived 
any  elapse  of  time  between  the  leaping  of  the  first  and  last  man. 
From  some  experiments  that  have  been  made  with  the  wire  of  the 
electro-magnetic  telegraph,  it  appears  that  in  a  distance  of  forty 
miles,  no  perceptible  elapse  of  time  could  be  observed  between 
the  giving  and  the  reception  of  the  signal. 

The  term  electro-magnetic  telegraph  is  superfluous;  for,  as  I 
have  shown,  magnetism  is  none  other  than  one  of  the  attributes 
of  electricity;  therefore,  the  term  electric  telegraph  would  be 
amply  adequate  to  express  the  idea. 

So  vast  a  heat  may  be  produced  by  electricity,  that  not  only 
gunpowder  is  set  on  fire,  and  charcoal  is  made  to  burn  with  a  bril- 
liant and  beautiful  white  flame,  but  metals  have  been  melted  and 
set  on  fire;  water  decomposed  into  oxygen  and  hydrogen;  dia- 
mond, charcoal  and  black-lead  dispersed  as  if  evaporated;  platina, 
the  heaviest  and  the  hardest  of  all  metals,  has  been  melted  like 
tallow  in  the  fire;  and  quartz,  sapphire,  lime,  magnesia,  and  some 
of  the  most  firm  bodies  in  nature,  have  been  melted.  The  heat  of 
electricity  is  tremendous. 

That  strange  fluid,  too,  of  the  nature  of  which  we  yet  know  so 
little,  operates  in  a  thousand  ways,  every  day,  before  our  eyes, 
without  our  knowing  the  cause.  It  is  the  cause  that  porter  has  a 
more  agreeable  taste  when  drunk  out  of  a  pewter  mug,  than  from 
a  glass  vessel.  It  is  the  cause  that  a  silver  spoon  is  discolored, 
when  used  in  eating  eggs;  it  is  the  cause  that  a  limb  will  be  con- 
vulsed under  the  knife  of  the  surgeon,  in  amputation;  it  is  the 
cause  that  a  glass  tumbler,  that  has  been  cooled  suddenly  in  mak- 
ing, will  break,  if  you  drop  a  small  piece  of  flint  into  it,  and  hence 
the  reason  that  all  glass  vessels  must  be  annealed  or  softened  be- 
fore they  are  used;  it  is  the  cause  why  pure  mercury  is  oxydized 
when  amalgamated  with  tin;  it  is  the  cause  why  vessels  of  metal, 
which  are  soldered,  so  soon  tarnish  where  they  are  joined  together; 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  507 

and  it  is  the  cause  why  the  copper  on  the  bottom  of  ships,  when 
put  on  with  iron  nails,  so  soon  corrodes  at  the  places  of  contact. 
The  reason  that  electricity  has  these  effects  is,  that  a  galvanic 
circle  is  formed,  as  in  the  Galvanic  Battery. 

In  speaking  of  electricity,  Mr.  Dick  says,  "we  have  reason  to 
believe,  that,  in  combination  with  the  discoveries  which  modern 
chemistry  is  daily  unfolding,  the  agencies  of  this  fluid  will  enable 
us  to  carry  the  arts  forward  towards  perfection,  and  to  trace  the 
secret  causes  of  some  of  the  sublimest  phenomena  in  nature." 

When  the  great  Franklin  took  hold  of  the  science  of  electricity, 
and  identified  it  with  the  lightnings  of  Heaven,  very  little  was 
known  concerning  it.  What  must  have  been  his  feelings,  when 
he  tried  the  experiment  of  drawing  down  the  lightning,  and  found 
that  he  had  succeeded  ?  He  took  the  first  idea  of  doing  so,  from 
seeing  a  boy  flying  a  kite.  And  how  simple  was  the  apparatus  he 
made  for  drawing  down  the  lightning  of  Heaven  and  proving  that 
it  was  the  same  as  electricity?  It  was  nothing  more  than  a  large 
silk  handkerchief  fastened  over  two  cross  sticks.  In  June,  1752, 
he  saw  a  cloud  rising,  and,  with  his  kite,  he  took  his  way  to  a 
field,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Philadelphia,  in  which  there  was  a 
shed,  taking  no  one  with  him  but  his  son,  and  communicating  his 
intention  to  no  one,  well  knowing  the  proneness  of  the  world  to 
laugh  at  one  who  makes  an  unsuccessful  experiment,  as  a  dreamer. 

He  raised  the  kite;  fastened  a  key  to  the  lower  end  of  the 
hempen  cord;  and,  having  insulated  it  by  fastening  it  to  a  post  by 
means  of  a  silk  string,  he  stood  under  the  shed  and  calmly  awaited 
the  result.  For  some  time  he  could  see  no  evidence  of  electricity. 
A  cloud,  which  he  supposed  to  be  charged  with  the  fluid,  had 
passed  over,  and  yet  his  kite  showed  no  signs  of  electricity.  After 
a  while,  however,  at  the  moment  when  he  was  despairing,  and 
thinking  of  giving  the  matter  up  and  going  home,  he  saw  the  loose 
particles  of  the  hempen  cord,  rise  and  stand  out,  as  they  will  repel 
each  other  when  charged  with  electricity.  The  next  moment  he 
presented  his  knuckle  to  the  key,  and,  to  his  great  joy,  drew  forth 
the  spark,  his  hopes  were  realized;  the  discovery  was  made,  and 
the  fact  was  proven,  that  electricity  and  lightning  are  the  same. 
He  declared,  afterwards,  that  his  emotions  were  so  great,  at  hav- 
ing made  a  discovery  which  would  render  his  name  illustrious,  that 
he  breathed  a  deep  sigh,  and  felt  as  if  he  could  have  willingly  died 
at  that  moment. 

He  afterwards  brought  down  the  lightning  into  his  own  house, 
and  performed  all  the  experiments  that  are  usually  performed  with 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  electrical  machine.     The  above  experiment  led  him  to  the  plan 
of  protecting  buildings  by  means  of  lightning  rods. 

But  his  great  discovery  did  not  at  first  excite  much  attention  in 
England;  for  it  is  said,  that  when  a  paper  on  the  similarity  of  light- 
ning and  electricity  was  read  before  the  Royal  Society,  the,  matter 
was  ridiculed;  but  when  the  celebrated  naturalist,  Buffon,  trans- 
lated and  published  it  in  Paris,  it  caused  astonishment  throughout 
Europe.  The  Royal  Society  was  thus  compelled  to  pay  Franklin 
the  homage  which  they  had  enviously  withheld;  "and  soon,"  says 
he,  "  they  made  me  more  than  amends  for  the  slight  with  which  they 
had  before  treated  me.  Without  my  having  made  any  application 
for  that  honor,  they  chose  me  a  member,  and  voted  that  I  should 
be  excused  the  customary  payments,  which  would  have  amounted 
to  twenty-five  guineas,  and  ever  since  have  given  me  their  trans- 
actions gratis.  They  also  presented  me  with  the  gold  medal  of 
Sir  Godfrey  Copley  for  the  year  1753,  the  delivery  of  which  was 
accompanied  with  a  very  handsome  speech  of  the  president,  Lord 
Macklesfield,  wherein  I  was  highly  honored," 

I  have  thus  detailed  the  experiment  of  that  truly  great  man, 
Benjamin  Franklin,  for  the  purpose  of  noting  the  period  at  which 
we  may  say  of  electricity  that  it  assumed  the  form  of  a  science, 
for  previous  to  that  time,  all  the  knowledge  on  the  subject,  con- 
sisted of  disjointed  fragments.  Like  steam,  electricity  is  even 
now  in  its  infancy.  Like  chemistry,  more  has  been  discovered  in 
it  during  the  last  hundred  years,  than  ever  was  known  before.  To 
Dr.  Franklin  we  are  indebted  for  the  very  form  of  a  science  it  has 
assumed ;  for  a  knowledge  of  its  two  states,  and  its  identity  with 
lightning. 

To  reiterate  what  I  have  said,  it  is  my  opinion  that  the  sun 
is  the  great  fountain  of  electricity — the  great  galvanic  battery 
which  moves  and  maintains  in  their  orbits  all  the  planets  which 
belong  to  our  Solar  System.  The  mighty  influence  of  this  magni- 
ficent galvanic  battery  is  felt  by  the  planets,  not  only  collectively, 
but  individually;  and  not  only  by  the  whole  body  of  each  and 
every  planet;  but  by  every  particle,  however  small,  that  enters 
into  the  composition  of  a  planet.  Mr.  Naff,  the  auctioneer  of 
this  city,  when  speaking  to  me  of  a  vacuum,  the  other  day,  ob- 
served that  a  vacuum  could  not  be  produced  without  the  presence 
of  heat  in  some  way;  and  so  I  may  say  of  electricity  and  its 
effects.  It  pervades  all  bodies,  more  or  less,  and  acts  upon  all,  in 
some  manner.  Motion  has  its  origin  in  the  unequal  distribu- 
tion of  electricity,  If  it  suddenly  pass  from  a  body,  that  has  more 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  509 

than  its  share,  into  one  that  has  less,  motion  is  produced,  and  also, 
light,  heal,  sound,  odor,  &c. 

I  have  said  that  every  particle  of  every  planet  is  operated  on  by 
the  electricity  coming  from  the  galvanic  battery,  the  sun;  yea,  it 
is  the  case  throughout  all  created  bodies,  which  are  scattered 
through  the  illimitable  regions  of  space.  And  not  only  does  that 
electricity  operate  from  the  sun  on  the  planets;  but,  by  reflection, 
from  the  planets  on  one  another  reciprocally,  and  so  nice  is  this 
mutual  action  and  reaction,  that  not  a  pebble  can  be  moved  on  the 
sea-shore,  nay,  not  a  flower,  or  even  a  feather,  can  be  moved  from 
the  spot  it  occupies,  without  the  effect  being  felt  by  every  planet, 
however  distant,  in  the  solar  system.  True,  the  effect  is  infinitesi- 
mal; yet,  nevertheless,  it  is  felt:  and  now,  when  I  move  this  paper 
on  my  desk,  the  effect  is  felt  by  Jupiter,  Saturn,  Herschell,  and, 
all  the  planets.  This  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  so;  and  he  who 
is  accustomed  to  experiment  with  electricity,  and  to  witness  its 
wonderful  operations,  so  inconceivably  powerful  and  rapid,  will 
not  be  at  a  loss  to  perceive  how  it  may  operate  thus. 

In  these  modern  times  of  improvement  and  discovery,  when 
scientific  instruments  have  been  brought  almost  to  perfection,  it 
has  been  discovered,  to  a  nicety,  as  well  as  certainty,  that  this 
mutual  action  and  reaction  of  the  planets  on  one  another  does 
take  place.  It  is  no  longer  a  matter  of  conjecture  or  of  doubt, 
but  of  certainty,  that  the  planets  are  not  only  acted  upon  by  the 
sun,  but  that  they  act  upon  one  another:  and  if  the  whole  body 
of  the  planet  Venus,  Mars,  or  Mercury,  has  an  influence  on  the 
motion  of  our  earth,  then  it  follows,  a  priori,  that  a  part  must 
have  a  corresponding  effect.  Therefore  a  pebble  removed  from 
its  place  on  our  globe,  must,  in  a  degree,  affect  not  only  the  whole 
planet  Venus  or  Mars,  but  every  planet  that  belongs  to  our  system. 
Owing  to  my  want  of  tools,  I  am  unable  to  illustrate  the  subjects 
of  these  essays  with  diagrams.  If  I  had  a  little  room  for  a  work 
shop,  I  would  make  engravings,  by  which  I  could  elucidate  and 
illustrate,  much  better,  the  subject  of  science,  of  which  I  write. 

In  the  present  improved  state  of  scientific  instruments,  it  has 
been  observed,  that  the  planets,  in  their  course  round  the  sun,  do 
not  describe  an  exact  circle,  oval  or  elliptic  course;  but  move  in 
and  out  of  the  direct  oval  line.  For  the  want  of  a  diagram,  I  fear 
that  it  will  be  difficult  to  convey  to  the  reader's  mind  a  lucid  idea 
of  what  I  mean;  bntl  will  endeavor  to  elucidate  it  by  a  vulgar 
similitude.  Suppose  yon  describe  upon  the  floor,  with  a  pair  of 
compasses  or  dividers  ten  feet  long,  a  large  oval  line,  meeting  at 


510  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

he  ends,  and  you  place  a  drunken  man  on  it  to  walk  round.  He 
will  inevitably  go  in  and  out  of  the  line,  in  a  zig-zag  direction  ; 
and  it  is  in  such  a  zig-zag  direction  that  the  planets  move,  which 
variable  or  irregular  motion  is  caused  by  the  action  of  the  other 
planets  on  one  of  their  number. 

The  action  of  the  planets  on  one  another,  was  long  since  known  ; 
for  Dr.  Halley,  in  calculating  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  the 
great  comet  in  1680,  was  under  the  necessity  of  calculating  the 
effect  which  Jupiter  would  have  on  it,  and  of  allowing  so  much 
time  for  the  retarding  influence  of  that  planet. 

But  lam  warned  that  I  am  approaching  the  limits  assigned  me, 
and  must  conclude.  I  am  compelled  to  write  in  haste,  and  many 
errors  will  inevitably  occur,  which  the  reader  must  correct.  I  have 
here  given  my  own  notions  concerning  our  solar  system,  and  reli- 
giously believe  that  electricity  is  the  grand  moving  cause  of  all 
things.  That  is,  it  is  the  great  agent  of  God,  in  giving  light,  life, 
motion  ;  and  that,  in  our  system,  the  sun  is  our  grand  galvanic  bat- 
tery, which  operates  on  all.  Knowing  what  little  we  do  of  the  na- 
ture of  electricity,  we  can  readily  see  that  there  is  no  agent,  which 
in  the  hand  of  God,  could  so  readily  and  rapidly  obey  his  mighty 
command. 


How  pleasant  'tis  to  be  a  poet, 

Especially  if  you  don't  know  it; 

To  rhyme  on  sentimental  themes, 

And  analyze  a  lover's  dreams. 

The  ladies,  when  they  chance  to  meet 

The  ragged  rhymer  in  the  street, 

Will  turn  and  cry  out — "Did  you  know  it? 

There  goes  the  sentimental  poet." 

"Law!  Ma,  set  joking  now  apart, 

He  never  wrote  the  Broken  Heart! 

That's  not  the  celebrated  Uzzard; 

He  looks  more  like  a  turkey-buzzard." 

"That  is  the  man,"  returns  Mamma, 

"If  you  don't  think  so,  ask  your  Pa; 

You  must  not  judge  men  by  their  looks, 

No  more  than  you  would  birds  or  books; 

The  sweetest  birds  that  grace  the  heathers, 

Are  seldom  clothed  in  flashy  feathers; 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  511 

Men  that  the  greatest  talents  bless, 

Are  rarely  fond  of  dandy  dress; 

You  always  find  that  men  of  sense, 

To  pomp  and  pride  have  no  pretence; 

They  stand  upon  their  merit  given, 

Not  by  the  tailor,  but  by  heaven; 

The  purse-proud  fool  may  boast  his  gains, 

The  booby,  with  an  ounce  of  brains, 

May  dash  with  curricle  and  cash, 

And  to  his  ponies  lend  the  lash; 

The  gaudy  coxcomb,  in  your  gaze, 

In  borrowed  plumes,  may  brightly  blaze, 

But  still  throughout  the  word  you'll  find, 

That  man  is  measured  by  the  mind. 

Of  poets  never  judge,  or  scholars, 

By  absence  of  fine  dress  or  dollars." 

You're  right,  Mamma,  I  said,  I  know  it — 

I'll  introduce  you  to  the  poet; 

This  Uzzard  is  my  worthy  friend; 

To  Broomstick  street  our  steps  we'll  bend; 

I'm  sure  we  there  will  cage  the  parrot; 

I'll  lead  you,  ladies,  to  his  garret. 

Up  a  dark,  dirty  stairway,  long, 

We  went  to  see  the  son  of  song; 

And  there  he  was  like  some  big  bug, 

Laid  out  upon  a  ragged  rug; 

As  independent  as  a  sawyer, 

And  with  a  tongue  like  any  lawyer; 

He  seemed  enraptured  with  his  life, 

And  only  wished  he  had  a  wife, 

To  write  off  manuscripts,  and  mend 

His  old  clothes,  given  by  a  friend; 

Upon  that  rug,  spread  on  the  floor, 

He'd  taken  many  a  hearty  snore; 

And  wished,  as  oft  that  rug  he  spread, 

That  all  men  had  as  good  a  bed; 

One  meal  a  day  alone  he  bore, 

The  reason  was  he  had  no  more; 

His  hat  was  made  in  eighteen  thirty, 

His  ragged  pantaloons  were  dirty; 

His  waistcoat,  of  all  colors  made, 

Was  hung  up  for  a  window  shade. 

His  coat  at  first  was  made  of  green, 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  seventeen, 

But  now  'twas  hard  to  tell,  I  ween, 

Which  was  the  color,  or  the  nap, 

Twas  like  a  many  colored  map; 

One  shirt  was  all  the  poet  shed, 

And  when  'twas  washed  he  went  to  bed: 

For  stockings  he  ne'er  spent  a  penny, 

The  reason  was,  he  hadn't  any; 


512  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARt). 

His  bursted  boots  had  ne'er  been  blacked; 

A  three  leg'd  stool,  a  tumbler  cracked, 

A  broken  pitcher  and  a  pail, 

A  one-eyed  cat  without  a  tail, 

A  corn-cob  pipe,  an  old  horn  spoon, 

A  jackleg  knife  and  tin  spittoon, 

Composed  .his  all  that  I  could  scan, 

And  yet  he  was  a  happy  man! 

"Well,"  said  Mamma,  "I  think  you  lead 

A  pleasant  life."    "I  do,  indeed — 

I've  always  led  a  genteel  life, 

And  had  I  now  a  handsome  wife, 

To  love  me  and  be  my  physician, 

There's  nought  could  better  my  condition." 

"In  fame,"  said  Miss,  "there  must  be  bliss, 

To  make  a  man  endure  all  this." 

"That's  not  the  cause,"  replied  Mamma, 

"If  you  don't  think  so,  ask  your  Pa; 

Contentment  is  the  cause — we  find 

True  happiness  dwells  in  the  mind." 

Ladies,  said  I,  you've  heard  the  parrot, 

And  you  have  seen  a  poet's  garret. 


FAIR  fancy   dwells 

In   sylvan   cells, 
Where  mountain   monarchs   grow, 

And   wild   winds  rave 

O'er   the  dark   blue  wave, 
And   the  crystal   cascades   flow. 

And  in   those  cells 

On  silver  bells, 
She   rings   her  revelry; 

And   oft  with   fire, 

On   the   Lydian   lyre, 
She  wakens  her  minstrelsy. 

In  golden  groves, 

With   laughing  loves, 
On   silver  slippers   she 

In  silence  strays, 

At  the  rocks   to    gaze, 
And   surge   of  the   sounding  sea. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  513 

On   her  fair  cheek, 

Love's  lilies  meek, 
And  pink  peach  blossoms  bloom; 

There   love's  bright  brush 

Gives   the   beauteous   blush, 
And   care  finds  a  flowery  tomb. 

Her  crowded  crown 

Rolls  curling  down 
On  her  white  breast  below, 

Like  grapes   of  gold, 

In  a  cluster  rolled, 
On  beds  of  the  softest  snow. 

When  morning  breaks 

O'er  lucid  lakes, 
Along  the  surf  she   strays, 

And   loves   her  shade 

In   the  deep   displayed, 
As  over  she  bends  to  gaze. 

In   Echo's  caves, 

Where  dashing  waves 
Foam   o'er  the  ragged   rocks, 

She  tears  her  hair 

In   the  lightning's  glare, 
And   the   thunder's   roaring  mocks. 


dDff  ire. 


THE  SPECTATOR  IS  STANDING  AT  THE  LITTLE  WINDOW, 

A  DASHING  damsel,  in  rich  robes  arrayed, 

At  the  window  her  blooming  face  displayed, 

"A  letter,  sir?"    "What  name?"  said  Mr.  Boon, 

"Miss  Julia  Jackson  Johnson  Clay  Calhoun." 

"There's  none,  fair  Miss,"  —  the  words  were  scarcely  spoken, 

Ere  she  cried  out,  "Oh!  me!  my  heart  is  broken; 

My  lover  borrowed  all  the  cash  I  had, 

He's  run  away  —  wont  write  —  and  I'll  go  mad." 

Stand  by,  ye  boys,  and  let  the  lady  pass, 

Her  heart  breaks  easier  than  her  looking-glass. 

Then  Cuffee  came,  a  dingy  dandy  bright, 

With  lips  an  inch  thick,  and  with  eyes  of  white; 

"A  letta,  sah?"    "What  name?"  is  heard  again, 

"  From  Massa  Sambo  to  Miss  Dinah  Jane, 

65 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

She  want  to  hear  from  Noo  Yawk,  dat  is  all, 

De  latest  fashioned  bustle  for  de  ball." 

"There's  none  for  you,  clear  out,"  the  clerk  replied; 

And  then  a  merchant  came,  inquired  nnd  sighed, 

The  letter  stated  that  the  man  he  trusted, 

Had   sold  his  goods,  gone  off,  and  somewhere  busted; 

Another  one — the  letters  to  him  handed, 

His  ship  and  cargo  had  been  lost  and  stranded; 

His  cheek  is  blanched,  he  strikes  his  panting  breast, 

A  ruin'd  man — your  fancy  paints  the  rest. 

Up  stepped  a  booby,  right  before  his  betters, 

"Sir,  Mr.   What  d'ye  call  him  wants  his  letters." 

"And  who  the  mischief's  he?"  the  clerk  inquires, 

"I  have  forgot,"  he  cries,  and  then  retires.       , 

Then  came  a  half-starved  poet  there  to  bicker, 

And  in  his  head  was  running  love  and  liquor; 

He  tore  the  letter  open,  and,  'twas  funny, 

He  nearly  fainted  at  thi§  sight  of  money; 

He  hadn't  seen  a  penny  in  a  week, 

It  cured  his  sore  eyes,  but  he  couldn't  speak; 

He  ran  home  to  his  garret  and  his  junk — 

The  rhyming  rascal  for  a  month  was  drunk; 

Just  like  a  worm-fence  did  he  walk,  and  stutter, 

Hie  jacet,  was  the  next  thing,  in  the  gutter. 

Now  came  an  aged  lady  to  that  place; — 
A  deep  anxiety  was  in  her  face; 
She  was  a  mother,  oh!  how  dear  that  name? 
Dearer  to  me  than  all  the  feasts  of  fame. 
She  was  a  mother — yes,  she  had  a  son, 
For  whose  dear  sake  her  heart  had  been  undone; 
He  was  a  wild  youth — always  most  beloved — 
And  yet  she  knew  not  where  her  son  had  roved; 
He  left  her  when  a  lad,  with  many  tears; 
She  had  not  seen  him  in  six  weary  years. 
"This,  Madam,"  said  the  clerk,  "will  soon  reveal!" — 
She  seized  the  letter — 'twas  a  sable  seal; 
She  gasped  for  breath,  then  tore  the  seal  apart, 
While  sorrow  preyed  upon  a  parent's  heart: 
I  saw  the  tear  that  eloquently  speaks, 
Steal  silently  adown  her  aged  cheeks; 
Her  bosom  heaved,  as  she  the  letter  read, 
For  oh !  her  son,  her  much  loved  son,  was  dead ! 
Far  in  a  foreign  land  her  hope,  her  pride, 
Within  a  stranger's  arms,  had  drooped  and  died; 
No  mother's  hand  his  dying  couch  had  spread, 
No  mother's  form  was  seen  around  his  bed; 
There  is  no  bosom  like  a  mother's  known, 
There  is  no  solace  like  her  sweet  soft  tone; 
There  is  no  place,  where'er  our  feet  may  roam, 
Where  we  can  die  so  calmly  as  at  home. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  515 

When  Death's  dread  angel  shall  his  dark  wings  wave, 

And  I  am  sinking  to  the  sombre  grave, 

'Twill  silence  all  affliction's  fierce  alarms, 

To  breathe  my  life  out  in  my  mother's  arms; 

There  let  me  suffer,  let  my  last  sigh  there, 

Be  breathed  to  heaven,  and  her  in  silent  prayer; 

Let  one  fair  hand,  whose  heart  once  broke  its  vow, 

Bind  faded  garlands  round  my  pale  cold  brow: 

Oh!  let  one  form,  beloved  thro'  lingering  years, 

Bend  o'er  my  tomb  and  shed  affliction's  tears. 


Coming. 


WINTER'S  coming!    Winter's  coming! 

Howling  o'er  the  hills  in  wrath; 
Buds  and  blossoms  now  are  blooming, 

Soon  to  perish  in  his  path. 
See  the  Storm-King  now  advances, 

Whirlwinds  wheel  his  crystal  cat; 
Hark!   the  tempest  round  him  dances 

Down  the  dark'ning  sky  afar. 

Winter's  coming!    Winter's  coming! 

See  a  hundred  hills  are  white; 
Flow 'rets  are  no  longer  blooming, 

Groves  no  longer  glad  the  sight. 
Summer's  flying!    Summer's  flying! 

On  her  silver  sandals,  see 
Her  footsteps,  where  her  flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  leaves  lie  'neath  the  tree. 

Winter's  roaring!    Winter's  roaring! 

Hear  him  thro'  the  forest  groan! 
Stormy  floods  now  fast  are  pouring, 

Wild  winds  round  the  building  moan! 
Mark  the  sea-boy  on  the  ocean, 

Riding  o'er  the  sounding  surge, 
Bend  the  knee  in  wild  devotion, 

While  the  sea-gods  sing  his  dirge. 

Winter's  coming!    Winter's  coming! 

Rouse  the  bright  fire  in  the  hall; 
Smiling  beauty  now  is  blooming, 

Blushing  at  the  bridal  ball. 


516  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Tho'  are  fading  nature's  flowers, 
On  the  bosom  of  the  earth; 

Fairer  flowers,  blooming  bowers, 
Beauty's  bosom  now  gives  birth. 

Winter's  coming!    Winter's  coming! 

But  he  soon  shall  pass  away, 
Spring  again,  with  flow'rets  blooming, 

Soon  shall  grace  the  gardens  gay: 
Thus  the  heart  that  pines  in  sorrow, 

In  life's  winter  sinks  and  dies, 
But  the  spring  that  breaks  to-morrow, 

Bids  it  live  beyond  the  skies. 


tjft  litdlist. 

DID  you  not  hear  the  wail  on  Potomac's  green  shore, 
Where  the  weapons  of  death  the  proud  warriors  wore? 
Twas  the  wail  of  the  genius  of  freedom  and  fame, 
She  grieves  for  the  victims  of  error  and  shame. 

How  long  shall  she  weep  o'er  the  trophies  of  pride? 
How  long  shall  false  honor  her  wisdom  deride? 
How  long  shall  the  heart  of  humanity  bleed, 
O'er  the  sin  and  the  shame  of  the  horrible  deed? 

O!   let  not  the  groan  of  the  duellist's  grief 
Ever  break  on  the  slumber  of  Vernon's  brave  chief; 
Blow  ye  winds  of  the  west  to  the  murderous  clime, 
Where  Hoboken  shall  mingle  her  horrors  of  crime. 

O'er  the  tomb  of  Decatur  pale  pity  still  weeps, 
And  the  wild  willow  waves  where  the  warrior  sleeps; 
To  the  tomb  of  sage  Hamilton  many  repair, 
While  Burr  still  remains  but  the  ghost  of  despair. 

But  think  not  that  sorrow  shall  weep  for  thy  lot, 
Thou  shalt  die  as  a  duellist — like  him  forgot; 
O'er  thy  grave  shall  the  raven  oft  utter  his  scream, 
And  the  lightnings  of  heaven  in  terror  shall  gleam. 

There  the  dirge  of  the  duellist  horror  shall  sing, 
And  the  vault  with  the  wail  of  the  widow  shall  ring; 
While  the  arm  that  offended  shall  moulder  away, 
And  the  dust  of  the  duellist  mingle  with  clay. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  517 

When  the  blood  of  the  brave  for  the  nation  is  shed, 
Fame  hallows  his  mem'ry  and  honors  the  dead; 
But  the  duellist's  doom,  tho'  from  death  yet  exempt, 
Shall  be  his  friend's  scorn,  and  his  country's  contempt. 


of  letntur. 


FAIR  Genius  of  Columbia  weep, 
Where  thy  loved  hero's  ashes  sleep; 
Plant  on  his  tomb  the  lily  fair, 
For  virtue,  valor,  slumber  there ! 
O!   let  oblivion's  vale  now  hide, 
One  error  of  ungrateful  pride; 
0!  wash  pollution's  stain  away, 
The  mark  of  that  inglorious  day ! 
Columbia  shed  thy  grateful  tear, 
O'er  this  loved  son  to  freedom  dear, 
Let  not  his  deeds  of  conquest  won, 
Be  shrouded  from  that  genial  sun 
That  beamed  with  radiance  on  his  fame, 
And  graced  Decatur's  glorious  name. 
O !   bid  the  tear  of  sorrow  flow; 
The  hero  sleeps,  the  turf  below ! 

When  wildly  blew  the  trump  of  war, 
Decatur  on  the  flaming  car 
Of  carnage,  sought  the  direful  fight, 
And  bravely  claimed  his  country's  right: 
Yea!   valor  mantled  on  his  brow 
And  victory  gave  her  promised  vow; 
Columbia  smiled  on  freedom's  son, 
For  battles  fought,  for  victory  won. 

Come,  lovely  maidens,  strew  your  flowers, 
Plucked  from  the  sweet  Arcadian  bowers; 
And  chaunt  your  song  of  sorrow  o'er, 
Your  loved  Decatur  is  no  more ! 
The  death-bell  rang  its  solemn  knell, 
The  hero  fought,  the  hero  fell; 
Yet  still  his  name,  to  memory  dear, 
Shall  claim  soft  pity's  falling  tear. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


i  Jlmngr. 


THE  following  lines  were  written  on  a  tradition  of  an   Indian's  revenge  for  his 
murdered  family. 

THE  Indian  stood  in  stately  pride, 

His  eye-balls  rolling  wild  and  wide, 

And  glaring  on  his  prostrate  foe, 

Writhing  beneath  the  expected  blow, 

His  teeth  were  clenched,  his  nostrils  wide, 

And  ever  and  anon  he  cried, 

"  My  father,  wife  and  children  died 

By  thee,  thou  cruel  one; 
My  cherished  hopes  of  years  are  o'er, 
My  friends  are  bleeding  on  the  shore, 
Thy  hands  are  reeking  with  their  gore, 

And  I  am  all  undone. 

"And  shall  they  unavenged  still  sleep, 
And  I  still  linger  there  to  weep? 
Nay,  nay,  I  swear  by  sea  and  land, 
The  hour  of  vengeance  is  at  hand; 
Thou'st  robbed  me  of  a  father,  wife, 
And  children.     What  to  me  is  life? 
A  desert  wild,  a  waste  of  years, 
A  scene  of  trouble  and  of  tears; 
My  children,  slain  by  thy  white  hand, 
Are  waiting  in  yon  distant  land: 
I  come,  I  come,  with  vengeance  dread; 
White  man,  I  go  when  thou  art  dead." 

He  said,  and  seized  his  foe, 
Rushing  upon  the  rocky  height, 
That  overhung  the  abyss  of  night, 
Where  high  he  held  the  quivering  form. 
Above  the  cataract  of  storm, 
And  sung  the  death-song  wild  and  high, 
With  yell  that  echoed  through  the  sky, 

Then  with  him  plunged  below: 
And  long,  when  they  had  disappeared, 
From  echoing  caves  and  rocks  were  heard, 
The  shrill  and  solemn  sounding  word, 

"I  come,  I  come." 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  519 


JUal 


O  WHERE  is  real  pleasure  found  ! 

Is  it  amid  the  giddy  gay? 
Or  is  it  in  the  midnight  round, 

Where  dissipation  holds  her  sway  ? 
Or  is  it  on  the  couch  of  ease, 

Where  fairy  phantom's  fill  the  brain? 
Or  is  it  in  the  crowd  to  please, 

Where  tip-toe  music  leads  the  train  ? 

Can  halls  of  mirth  impart  the  charm, 

So  often  sought,  but  sought  in  vain  ? 
Can  friendship's  touch  of  feeling  warm, 

Or  proffered  hoards  of  shining  gain? 
Can  fame  impearl  the  genial  prize, 

Or  diadems  absorb  the  ray? 
Or  does  it  flow  from  beauty's  eyes? 

Or  bloom  in  flowery  fields  of  May  ? 

Say,  does  it  dwell  in  lonesome  caves  ? 

Or  mantle  on  the  gloom  of  night? 
Or  where  the  smiling  Naiad  laves, 

In  rippling  streams  of  silvery  light? 
Can  it  be  found  where  past'ral  maids, 

Sweep  gently  o'er  the  dewy  lawn? 
Or  when  the  evening  landscape  fades? 

Or  when  Aurora  gilds  the  dawn? 

Ah  no  !    Then  does  it  grace  the  court, 

Where  grandeur  holds  the  reins  of  state? 
Does  it  attend  a  prince's  sport? 

Or  hoary  king's  proud  breast  elate? 
Ah  !  is  it  found  within  the  field, 

Where  valor  strews,  in  death,  the  ground; 
Where  shield  to  lance,  and  lance  to  shield, 

Oppose  in  fatal  conflict  round? 

The  charm  cannot  be  found  in  these, 

It  dwells  not  in  a  palace  walls; 
Nor  on  the  downy  couch  of  ease, 

Nor  'neath  the  roof  of  mirthful  halls; 
Nor  is  it  in  the  flowery  field, 

Nor  hoards  of  gold,  or  battle's  fray; 
It  reeks  not  of  the  lance  or  shield;  — 

It  reeks  not  of  the  giddy  gay. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

The  glorious  charm  resides  in  heaven, 

It  emanates  below  the  skies; 
From  Siloa's  fount,  to  man  is  given, 

The  balm  that  wipes  his  anguished  eyes! 
O  this  is  real  pleasure  known 

Unto  the  heart  that's  born  again; 
From  heaven  to  man  the  vision's  shown, 

Twas  felt  when  God's  dear  Son  was  slain. 


I  WENT  into  the  hall  of  mirth, 

Amid  the  great  and  gay, 
Where  splendor  that  seemed  not  of  earth, 

Illumed  with  radiant  ray; 
And  there  amid  the  mirthful  band, 

(None  dare  the  mandate  chide,) 
I  saw  a  form  that  gave  command, 

Twas  haughty,  bloated  PRIDE. 

1  went  into  the  house  of  one 

Who  scorned  whate'er  was  gay, 
No  mirrors  there  shone  like  the  sun, 

In  artificial  day; 
His  heart  no  grandeur  ever  knew, 

For  splendor  never  sighed ! 
But  lo!  to  my  astonished  view, 

Up  rose  the  demon  PRIDE. 

I  went  into  the  humble  hut 

Where  simple  nature  smiled, 
Whose  lowly  door  was  never  shut, 

To  fortune's  wandering  child; 
And  there,  tho'  greatness  never  strayed, 

And  wealth  was  never  known, 
Yet  there  the  sceptre  too  was  swayed 

By  PRIDE  upon  her  throne. 

I  turned  me  from  the  scene  and  said, 

Sure  pride  possesses  all; 
I've  found  her  in  the  lowly  shed, 

And  in  the  lofty  hall! 
"Ah,  yes,"  in  rags,  a  beggar  cried, 

"I  once  was  governed  too, 
But  kind  religion  killed  my  pride, 

I'm  proud  in  telling  you." 


M  &  K I TT 


AND 


WILD  HARRY,  OF  WILMINGTON. 


T  was  about  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
[tury,  when  the  dawn  of  civilization  was  just 
beginning  to  break  on  the  green  and  glorious 
'shores  of  Delaware — when  the  adventurous  feet 
>of  the  Dutchman,  Swede,  and  Englishman  were 
"pushing  into  the  wild  recesses  of  our  forests, 
that  this  narrative  of  Indian  life  and  love  com- 
mences. The  wild  and  rocky  shores  of  the 
beautiful  and  romantic  Brandywine  then  swarmed 
with  the  dusky  forms  of  the  children  of  the  forest, 
and  the  terrible  war-whoop  and  yell  rung  and 
reverberated  along  those  rugged  banks,  where 
the  beautiful  forms  of  female  elegance  and  refine- 
ment now  wander.  The  Brandywine  was  then 
untouched  by  the  gigantic  hand  of  Art,  and  the 
busy  wheel  of  industry  was  unheard  amid  those 
sublime  solitudes  of  nature.  No  white  sail  of  commerce  was 
seen  bending  in  beauty  to  the  breeze,  over  the  waveless  waters  in 
which  the  Indian  hunter  laved  his  manly  limbs,  and  paddled  his 
bark  canoe.  In  those  interminable  forests  that  overshadowed  the 
shores  of  the  Brandywine,  the  wigwams  of  the  savages  were  scat- 
tered here  and  there;  and  often  as  the  moonlight  slept  upon  the 
waters  rippling  over  their  rocky  bed,  did  the  dusky  damsels  of  the 
forest  meet  their  lovers  among  those  rocks,  which  have  long  since 
been  removed  by  the  perseverance  of  the  pale  faces. 

Here,  in  those  beautiful  solitudes  and  recesses,  the  Indians  for 
ages  had  lived  and  loved  and  passed  away  at  the  call  of  the  Great 
66 


522  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Spirit;  till  the  white  man  came,  as  the  serpent  entered  the  garden 
of  Eden,  sweeping  from  their  eyes  the  mist  that  had  enveloped 
them,  and  opening  to  them  the  wondrous  light  of  knowledge  and 
civilization.  But  the  poor  children  of  the  forest  imbibed  his  vices, 
not  his  virtues;  and  the  curse  of  ardent  spirits  still  rests  upon  that 
unfortunate  race,  the  wrongs  of  which  unfold  a  tale  of  ruin,  melan- 
choly to  the  heart  of  humanity. 

Where  are  now  the  once  powerful  tribes  that  swarmed  amid 
the  forests  of  Delaware,  and  battled  and  bled  on  the  banks  of  the 
Brandy  wine?  They  have  dwindled  away  to  a  handful,  and  have 
wandered  far  away  from  the  scenes  where  their  council-fires  blazed, 
and  they  met  in  the  spirit  stirring  war-dance.  The  arm  that  was 
once  powerful,  is  now  paralyzed ;  for  on  the  day  that  the  keel  of 
Lord  de  la  War  touched  these  shores,  the  grave  of  Indian  glory 
was  opened,  and  the  knell  of  the  race  rung  through  these  woods. 
The  day  of  their  mighty  deeds  is  past,  and  no  more  shall  their 
dusky  forms  glide  among  the  embowered  groves  of  the  Brandy- 
wine. 

But  to  the  story.  Manitoo,  the  beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  was 
a  member  of  the  Delaware  Tribe.  Her  father  had  been  killed  in 
battle,  and  she  became  the  adopted  daughter  of  the  proud,  imperi- 
ous chief,  named  (Jndine;  who,  in  his  youth,  had  been  called  the 
swiftest  hunter  and  most  daring  warrior  of  the  tribe. — Undine  had 
never  been  known  to  return  from  battle  without  a  score  of  scalps 
and  other  spoils  of  war;  for  terrible  was  the  glance  of  his  eye; 
and  the  sound  of  his  voice,  when  heard  amid  the  strife,  was  like 
that  of  the  Storm  King,  when  he  roars  amid  the  battling  billows 
of  the  sea. 

Manitoo  was  indeed  beautiful.  Lighter  than  the  ordinary  Indian 
complexion,  she  was  the  color  of  a  Spanish  brunette;  her  features 
were  more  of  the  Grecian,  than  of  the  Asiatic  mould,  and  her 
cheeks  had  not  that  prominence  which  we  generally  find  in  the 
faces  of  the  aborigines.  But  it  was  her  form  that  surpassed  in 
elegance  and  grace  those  of  all  others  of  her  tribe,  and  became  the 
admiration  of  the  young  warriors,  as  well  as  the  envy  of  her  own 
sex.  Though  her  eye  was  as  dark  and  dazzling  in  its  brilliance 
as  the  diamond  of  the  first  water  when  polished  by  the  lapidary; 
yet  there  was  even  a  superior  charm  in  the  dignity  of  her  demeanor, 
and  in  the  graceful  outline  of  her  figure;  for  she  felt  an  inherent 
consciousness  that  she  was  superior,  both  in  person  and  intellect, 
to  the  dingy  maids  around  her.  Her  form,  straight  as  the  arrow  of 
the  mighty  bow  her  reputed  father  had  borne  in  battle,  was  as 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  523 

graceful  and  symmetrical;  and  when  she,  stood  alone  upon  a  rock 
on  the  bank  of  the  Brandywine,  the  long  black  tresses  of  her 
waving  hair  almost  reaching  the  ground,  she  seemed  like  a  fairy 
creature  of  enchantment ;  a  Venus  just  risen  from  the  sea;  and 
when  seen  in  moonlight,  with  one  foot  thrown  forward  and  her 
beautifully  chisseled  lips  apart,  revealing  small  even  teeth  white  as 
ivory,  she  might  have  been  taken  for  a  chef  d'ouvre  from  the  chis- 
sel  of  a  Praxiteles,  a  Michael  Angelo,  or  a  Canova.  It  was  her  de- 
light when  the  full  round  moon  hung  high  in  Heaven,  to  amuse 
herself  by  paddling  down  the  rapid  Brandywine  in  her  fairy-formed 
bark  canoe,  that  moved  upon  the  swollen  waters  like  some  en- 
chanted boat  gliding  through  the  transparent  atmosphere  between 
two  skies,  the  one  above  and  the  other  reflected  from  the  pellucid 
waves.  Her  figure,  a  little  above  the  middle  stature,  attired  in  her 
royal  robe  adorned  with  variegated  beads ;  her  head  graced  with  a 
fanciful  formed  cap  or  bonnet,  placed  on  one  side,  from  which  the 
long  flowing  white  and  purple  feathers  of  a  bird,  now  unknown  in 
these  forests,  were  suspended ;  and  her  small,  exquisitely  formed 
feet,  encased  in  moccasins  or  slippers,  embroidered  with  silk  and 
beads  of  many  colors — her  figure,  thus  seen  in  the  bow,  gracefully 
guiding  with  a  paddle  her  light  canoe,  was  a  subject  worthy  of  the 
pencil  of  Apelles,  or  the  sublime  harp  of  Homer.  On  the  moon- 
lit rocks  on  each  side  of  the  Brandywine,  sat  in  groups  the  young 
Indian  maidens  and  warriors,  listening  to  the  wild  song  of  love 
which  she  had  been  taught  by  the  pale-faced  Swedes,  while  the 
rich  music  of  her  melodious  voice  died  away  among  the  rocky 
defiles  in  the  distance,  like  the  tones  of  an  ^Eolian  harp  over  the 
bosom  of  a  lucid  lake.  Thus  did  she  swiftly  glide  along  the 
wood-skirted  shores  where  the  axe  of  industry  has  since  been, 
and  the  hand  of  enterprize  and  art  has  awakened  the  music  of 
revolving  wheels  and  resounding  anvils.  How  changed  indeed  is 
now  the  scene?  Gone  for  ever  is  every  trace  of  the  poor  children 
of  the  forest,  as  if  their  footsteps  had  never  been  impressed  on 
the  flinty  confines  of  that  romantic  stream — as  if  the  keels  of  their 
airy  canoes  had  never  gracefully  glided  through  those  waters,  or 
the  war-whoop  had  never  resounded  in  the  woods.  The  irresisti- 
ble tide  of  time  has  swept  them  away;  the  soil  which  they  trod 
has  become  the  possession  of  the  sons  of  civilization,  and  they 
have  reared  their  sumptuous  dwellings  where  the  wigwam  once 
stood,  and  the  mighty  monarch  of  the  mountain  bowed  his 
branches  to  the  blast.  Though  the  change  has  resulted  as  a  bless- 
ing to  a  nobler,  a  more  enlightened  race;  yet,  when  we  survey 


524  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  melancholy  ruins  of  a  once  numerous  people  and  powerful 
empire,  we  cannot  but  mourn  over  the  wrongs  of  that  ill-fated  race. 
Harry,  or  Wild  Harry  of  Wilmington,  (then  cnlled  Williamstown, 
if  my  memory  serves  me  right,)  was  a  descendant  of  a  Swedish 
family,  one  of  the  members  of  which  built  the  old  Swedes  church, 
which  still  lifts  its  venerable  time-worn  walls  in  the  cily  of  Wilming- 
ton ;  though  it  then  stood  a  considerable  distance  from  the  town. 
Harry  was  surnamed  the  "Wild,"  on  account  of  his  roving,  ro- 
mantic, and  daring  spirit  of  adventure,  and  the  love  of  every  thing 
out  of  the  common  order  of  nature.  He  possessed  a  powerful 
athletic  frame  and  an  iron  constitution,  which  were  capable  of 
enduring  much  hardship  and  fatigue;  and  his  was  a  spirit  that 
never  quailed,  a  soul  that  shrunk  not  from  danger  or  death.  He 
was  considered  the  handsomest,  most  active,  and  graceful  man  in 
Williamstown,  or  Wilmington;  nor  was  his  that  baby-faced  beauty 
which  springs  from  beardless  effeminacy;  but  he  possessed  those 
manly  graces,  those  masculine  charms,  which  never  fail,  when 
combined  with  mental  attractions,  to  win  the  heart  of  confidinu  and 

*  O 

discerning  woman ;  for  it  is  notorious  that  women  more  frequent- 
ly appreciate  men  for  their  sterling  qualities,  than  men  do  women. 
WTomen  are  not  so  often  fascinated  by  the  mere  unmeaning  charms 
of  person,  as  men  are;  but  are  more  pleased  with  the  brilliant  and 
enduring  graces  of  the  mind  and  manners.  Mirabeau  was  con- 
sidered the  ugliest  man  in  all  France;  yet  he  was  universally 
courted  and  admired  by  the  most  gay,  grand,  graceful,  and  gifted 
ladies  of  that  land  of  sentiment  and  science,  of  fashion  and  phi- 
losophy. Mere  personal  beauty  is  like  a  painting,  which  fasci- 
nates at  first,  but  upon  which  we  soon  grow  tired  of  gazing;  while 
the  attractions  of  mind  and  manners  increase  upon  acquaintance. 
How  often  do  we  meet  with  persons  whom  we  cannot  fancy  at  all 
at  first  sight;  yet  to  whom,  after  a  time,  we  become  attached  with 
undying  affection?  It  arises  from  the  mysterious  sympathy  of  soul. 
The  family  over  which  Harry  presided,  consisted  of  but  two, 
beside  himself;  his  mother  and  a  sister,  whose  intellectual  endow- 
ments were  of  the  highest  order.  They  resided  in  a  Dutch  hip- 
roofed  house  of  ancient  date,  which  has  long  since  disappeared, 
with  its  inmates,  and  on  the  site  of  which  now  stands  one  of 
those  splendid  dwellings  which  grace  King  street.  They  lived 
partly  on  the  patrimony  left  by  the  father  of  the  family,  and  partly 
by  the  industry  of  their  own  hands;  and  labor  in  those  primi- 
tive days,  unlike  the  present,  was  far  from  being  considered 
disreputable. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  525 

Harry,  however,  would  never  soil  his  patrician  hands  with  the 
implements  of  art  or  industry;  but  acquired  his  support  in  wild 
daring  adventures;  the  scenes  or  consummation  of  which,  no  one 
knew.  He  was  frequently  seen  at  night  to  enter  a  barge  on  the 
waters  of  the  Brandywine,  and  to  pursue  his  way  to  the  Delaware 
river;  but  whither  he  went,  or  by  what  means  he  obtained  his 
cargo,  no  one  knew.  Some  of  the  citizens  viewed  him  as  a  free- 
booter; others  as  a  smuggler;  but  none  knew,  for  he  invariably 
left  the  shore  of  the  Brandywine  in  the  gloom  of  night,  and  returned 
under  the  same  concealment.  Certain  it  was  that,  on  these  ex- 
peditions, he  always  went  well-armed  with  a  brace  of  pistols  in 
his  belt,  and  a  cutlass  and  carbine  concealed  in  the  pseudo  cabin 
of  his  boat. 

It  was  on  a  beautiful  night  in  June,  after  having  returned  from 
one  of  his  secret  adventures,  when  the  forests  were  carpeted  with 
flowers,  and  the  trees  arrayed  in  rich  green  robes  and  bending 
with  blossoms  that  Harry  wandered  forth  by  moon-light  amid  the 
wild  and  romantic  recesses  of  the  Brandywine,  as  was  his  usual 
custom,  to  muse  and  meditate  alone,  as  some  supposed,  on  the 
mysterious  adventures  in  which  he  was  engaged.  Lost  in  thought, 
he  wandered  through  the  woodlands,  and  clambered  over  craggy 
precipices  until,  weary  of  rambling,  he  seated  himself  on  a  large 
flat  rock,  on  the  south  side  of  the  Brandywine,  which  the  reader 
may  now  find  just  opposite  the  upper  dam;  and  there,  in  a  secret 
crevice,  he  may  discover  the  initials  of  his  own,  and  of  the  name 
of  Manitoo,  engraven  on  the  solid  stone.  The  storms  of  a  century 
and  a  half  have  beaten  upon  that  rock,  but  have  not  obliterated 
that  eternal  record  of  the  Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine  and 
Wild  Harry  of  Wilmington,  though  they  have  long  slumbered  in 
the  silent  city  of  the  dead,  and  their  bones  are  mouldering  and 
mingling  in  the  charnel-house  of  their  fathers. 

Not  a  sound,  save  that  of  the  rushing  waters  which  had  been 
swollen  by  the  copious  rains,  now  fell  upon  the  ear  of  the  musing 
Harry.  The  sweet  odor  of  the  wild  honeysuckles,  then  abounding 
and  blooming  in  the  woods  bordering  the  Brandywine,  was  wafted 
on  the  breeze  to  his  delighted  sense;  rich  as  the  smell  of  the 
ambrosial  blossoms  that  scent  the  gales  of  Arabia.  He  was  re- 
clining at  full  length  upon  that  table  rock,  when  suddenly  he  was 
aroused  by  the  faint  sonnd  of  a  female  voice  in  the  distance.  Now 
nearer  and  nearer,  louder  and  louder  came  those  delightful  and 
mellifluous  tones  of  melancholy  music;  now  dying  away  in  lonely 
cadences,  and  now  swelling  forth  upon  the  ear  like  the  full  toned 

*    ., 


526  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORU    BARD. 

chords  of  the  organ.  Entranced  he  hung  upon  those  bewitching 
strains,  as  still  nearer  and  nearer  approached  the  mysterious  source, 
though  his  eye  in  the  dim  distance  could  not  trace  the  outline  of 
the  magic  musician.  He  listened  with  lips  apart,  and  for  a  time 
could  not  conjecture  whether  the  music  was  reality  or  romance; 
whether  it  issued  from  the  silver  shell  of  echo,  the  enchanted  coral 
caves  of  the  Naiads  of  the  stream,  or  whether  it  came  from  the 
equally  enchanted  lips  of  woman.  Had  an  angel's  hand  awakened 
to  ecstasy  a  hundred  golden  harps  in  heaven,  the  melody  could 
not  have  roused  his  soul  to  a  sense  of  more  ecstatic  enjoyment, 
than  did  the  sounds  which  were  poured  forth  in  exquisite  pathos 
from  the  lovely  lips  of  the  yet  unseen  Syren  of  the  Brandywine. 
He  placed  his  ear  upon  the  rock,  and  the  tide  of  harmony  rolled 
upon  his  spell-bound  ear  with  all  the  charms  of  rapture  and  ro- 
mance; for  there  is  no  music  in  nature  so  sweet,  as  that  which  is 
breathed  by  the  lips  of  lovely  woman.  He  gazed  again,  and  beheld 
in  the  distance  the  figure  of  Manitoo,  in  her  bark  canoe,  as  the 
light  of  the  full  moon  fell  upon  her,  and  revealed  all  her  graces  to 
his  astonished  vision.  The  hour,  the  solitary  silence,  the  romance 
of  the  scene,  all  invested  her  with  irresistible  charm  in  the  heart 
of  Harry.  Indeed  we  little  dream  what  a  powerful  influence 
romance  has  upon  our  feelings  and  affections,  particularly  in  the 
quiet  stillness  of  the  night,  when  the  moonbeams  are  falling  in 
silvery  showers  around  us,  and  the  spirits  of  the  blooming  flowers 
breathe  fragrance  in  our  path. 

Nearer  and  nearer  came  the  beautiful  Indian  maid  of  the  Brandy- 
wine,  while  Harry  gazed  upon  her  straight  and  graceful  form,  and 
exquisitely  moulded  Grecian  features,  with  a  feeling  to  which  he 
had  ever  before  been  a  stranger.  When  her  light  canoe  struck 
the  shore,  she  did  not  perceive  his  reclining  form ;  but  on  discover- 
ing him  she  started  with  maiden  modesty,  and  attempted  to  push 
off  with  the  light  paddle  she  held  in  her  hand;  but  Harry  leaped 
upon  his  feet  and,  at  one  bound,  seized  the  prow  of  the  canoe, 
beckoning  her  with  a  bewildered  manner  to  come  on  shore,  lillle 
dreaming  that  she  could  speak  English. 

"Stranger,"  said  Manitoo,  in  a  broken  but  bewitching  dialect, 
"let  me  go  to  the  wigwam  of  my  father." 

"Nay,"  returned  Harry,  "let  me  gaze  upon  thee ;  let  me  speak 
with  thee  but  one  moment,  and  thou  shalt  be  crone." 

o 

"Away!  pale  face,  away!  thou  art  the  enemy  of  my  race,"  she 
exclaimed,  as  she  released  herself  from  the  grasp  and  suddenly 
pushed  from  the  shore,  while  Harry  stood  with  folded  arms  and 

.'  . 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  527 

each  gazed  at  the  other.  In  a  few  minutes  she  seated  herself  and 
went  paddling  up  the  stream,  singing  the  famous  death-song,  which 
rung  in  wild  echoes  among  the  rocks,  and  reverberated  in  the 
gloomy  depths  of  the  surrounding  forests,  until  she  disappeared 
from  sight. 

"  Oh !"  thought  the  fascinated  and  musing  Harry,  "  what  a  glorious 
world  were  this,  if  all  were  romance  and  nothing  were  reality;  if 
like  the  poet,  the  player  and  the  artist,  we  could  live  amid  the 
creations  of  the  fancy,  or  revel  in  a  world  of  our  own;  but  alas! 
when  the  vision  of  bliss  breaks  upon  us  in  all  its  gorgeous  and 
dazzling  beauty,  it  soon  fades  away  into  the  dull  dimness  of  reality. 
But  so  it  should  be.  We  judge  of  every  thing  by  contrast.  We 
appreciate  pleasure  by  pain;  health  by  sickness,  and  wealth  by 
poverty.  He  who  never  sees  the  shadows  of  a  picture,  cannot 
properly  appreciate  the  beauty  of  the  lights;  and  he  who  is  never 
sick,  knows  not  the  enjoyment  of  health." 

Thus  did  Harry  meditate,  until  he  turned  his  footsteps  towards 
home.  He  retired  to  his  comfortable  bed;  but  the  drowsy  god 
laid  not  his  leaden  sceptre  upon  his  eyes.  The  romantic  figure  of 
the  beautiful  Indian  was  still  before  his  vision ;  and  the  death-song, 
as  she  went  up  the  Brandywine,  still  rung  in  his  ears.  He  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  sweet  smile  that  beamed  upon  her  beauti- 
ful face,  as  she  stood  gazing  upon  his  manly  form  and  waving  the 
fond  adieu. 

At  the  dawn  of  day  he  fell  into  a  deep  slumber,  in  which  he 
had  a  dream.  He  fancied  that  he  strayed  on  the  Brandywine  to 
the  same  rock  where  he  had  first  beheld  the  maiden,  and  that  she 
approached  the  shore  with  a  wreath  of  wild  flowers,  which  she 
gracefully  presented  to  him,  at  the  same  time  breathing  in  his  ear 
a  vow  of  undying  affection.  Suddenly  she  grasped  him  by  the 
hand;  released  it  as  suddenly;  flew  to  her  canoe,  and  pushed  off 
into  the  stream.  As  he  stood  gazing  he  saw  her  tear  her  hair, 
and  with  horror  beheld  her  plunge  madly  in  the  water  and  disap- 
pear. Starting  he  awoke  from  his  wild  dream. 

"What  is  the  matter,  brother?"  enquired  his  sister,  who  had 
been  standing  at  the  bedside,  watching  his  emotion. 

"Oh!  nothing,"  replied  Harry,  "  but  a  romantic  vision  I  have 
had;  such  as  often  disturbs  my  sleep." 

It  is  something  singular  that  many  persons  have  formed  attach- 
ments in  dreams,  which  made  an  impression  on  the  mind  when 
awake  that  never  faded  away.  Such  an  impression  was  made  up- 
on the  mind  of  Harry.  In  his  waking  moments,  the  fairy  form 


528  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

he  had  seen  in  his  dream  was  before  his  vision;  and  yet  he  dared 
not  own  the  power  of  her  charms. 

The  next  night,  Harry  again  visited  the  solitary  rock  on  the 
Brandywine,  in  ardent  hope  that  he  would  again  behold  the  lovely 
Naiad  of  the  waters;  but  she  came  not.  Night  after  night  he 
wandered  there,  and  sat  for  hours  contemplating  the  solitary  gran- 
deur of  the  scene;  but  he  saw  not  the  majestic  figure  of  the  In- 
dian Beauty,  standing  in  bold  relief  on  her  fairy  and  fragile  bark 
canoe;  and  he  heard  not  the  rich  melody  of  her  lips,  lingering  in 
echoes  among  the  rocks,  and  melting  away  in  murmurs  amid  the 
surwunding  hills.  With  a  sense  of  disappointment,  he  gave  up 
the  fondly  cherished  hope  of  seeing  again  the  being  who  had 
thrown  a  spell  of  enchantment  and  romance  around  him;  for  he 
imagined  that  Manitoo  had  gone  with  the  Indian  hunters  on  an 
expedition  far  up  into  the  country. 

The  next  night  Wild  Harry  of  Wilmington  might  have  been 
seen  wending  his  way  down  the  Brandywine  to  the  Delaware 
river.  He  boarded  a  brig  from  Bremen,  richly  laden  with  mer- 
chandise, which  his  object  was  to  purchase  and  sell  to  the  Swedes. 
He  returned  from  that  floating  fabric  of  disease,  with  the  seeds  of 
the  plague  deeply  implanted  in  his  system,  which  soon  became 
known  to  the  inhabitants,  who  in  terror  fled  from  him,  as  from  a 
loathsome  mass  of  contagion.  The  ties  of  consanguinity  were 
annihilated ;  and  his  friends,  alarmed  for  their  lives,  all  forsook 
him,  save  his  intellectual  and  heroic  sister,  who  clung  to  him  with 
undying  affection,  and  perilled  her  own,  to  save  the  life  of  her 
brother,  whom  she  devotedly  loved. 

The  desolating  ravages  of  the  plague  in  London,  in  the  year 
1666,  had  spread  alarm  throughout  Europe  and  the  British  Colo- 
nies in  America;  and  some  of  those  who  resided  in  and  around 
Wilmington,  had  witnessed  the  horrors  of  that  memorable  cala- 
mity. It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  then,  that  they  should  start 
with  alarm,  when  the  terrific  news  went  on  the  wings  of  the  wind 
that  the  dreadful  scourge  was  in  the  neighborhood. 

Harry  was  removed,  by  the  universal  voice  of  the  people,  to  an 
old  deserted  wigwam,  far  up  on  the  south  bank  of  the  Brandy- 
wine,  followed  by  his  faithful  and  affectionate  sister,  who  was 
heroically  determined  to  immolate  herself  on  the  pyre  of  her  per- 
ishing brother,  or,  by  her  assiduity  and  attention,  restore  him 
again  to  his  former  health  and  home.  In  this  lonely  habitation, 
she,  with  unwearied  attention,  ministered  to  his  wants  through  the 
day,  and  sat  reading  to  him  through  the  solemn  and  solitary  night, 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  529 

thus  cheering  his  drooping  spirit,  as  well  as  abstracting  his  mind 
from  the  contemplation  of  his  situation,  which  in  a  sick  room  is 
of  the  utmost  consequence  to  the  well-being  of  the  patient. 

One  day,  while  she  was  gone  to  town  to  procure  such  articles 
as  the  necessity  of  his  condition  required,  Harry,  whose  face  was 
fanned  by  the  cooling  breeze  of  summer,  gradually  sunk  into  a 
sweet  slumber;  nor  did  he  awake  until  the  light  footstep  of  his 
sister  Julia,  as  he  inmgined,  fell  upon  his  ear.  Imagine,  gentle 
reader,  his  surprise  and  delight,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  at  be- 
holding before  him,  arrayed  in  all  her  graceful  charms,  Manitoo, 
the  Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandy  wine!  Arrayed  in  the  robe  usually 
worn  by  an  Indian  princess,  she  was  standing  over  him  with  clasp- 
ed hands  and  elevated  eyes,  as  if  invoking  the  Great  Spirit  to  spare 
the  life  of  the  pale-face,  whose  romantic  interview  on  the  rock  by 
moonlight  had  left  as  strong  traces  upon  the  mirror  of  her  memo- 
ry, as  had  her  heavenly  smile  and  fairy  form  on  the  heart  of  Harry. 
Taking  her  hand,  with  a  look  that  conveyed  to  her  susceptible 
soul  the  language  of  love,  he  motioned  her  to  be  seated;  and 
while  she  sat  and  gazed  upon  him  with  a  sweetly  sympathizing 
glance  from  her  dark  and  dazzling  eye,  so  full  of  melting  tender- 
ness, he  fondly  pressed  her  small  hand  to  his  lips,  and  then  to  his 
bosom.  Manitoo  felt,  as  well  as  understood  his  allusions;  and, 
according  to  the  custom  of  her  tribe,  she  knelt  and  kissed  his 
cheek,  then  pressed  her  luxurious  lips  to  his  pale  forehead. 

Just  as  Harry  had  relinquished  her  hand,  Julia  returned  and  felt 
strange  emotions  at  seeing  an  Indian  princess  in  the  presence, 
and  at  the  bedside  of  her  afflicted  brother:  though  she  did  not 
suspect  for  a  moment  how  great  a  sympathy  existed  between  those 
two  souls,  or  how  ardent  was  the  romantic  attachment  that  linked 
their  hearts  together — for  it  was  not  then  as  now ;  the  sight  of  an 
Indian  was  to  her  no  curiosity.  But  she  was  struck  with  the  sin- 
gular beauty  of  the  being  before  her;  minutely  scrutinizing  her 
exquisite  figure;  her  fascinating  features;  and  her  unique,  rich, 
and  romantic  dress. 

After  a  short  time,  during  which  she  betrayed  by  look  or  word, 
nothing  that  had  transpired  between  Harry  and  herself,  she  grace- 
fully pronounced  a  parting  benediction,  and  promised  to  visit 
again  the  afflicted  stranger. 

The  next  day  she  returned,  bringing  her  father  with  her,  and  a 

young  warrior  of  the  Choctaw  tribe,  who  it  could  plainly  be  seen 

was  her  lover,  and  expected  to  be  the  favored  suitor  for  her  hand. 

She  brought  with  her  various  kinds  of  herbs,  and,  after  formally 

67 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

making  known  to  the  brother  and  sister  the  personages  she  had 
brought  with  her,  she  applied  herself  to  the  task,  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  Indians,  of  making  a  concoction  for  the  sufferer, 
assuring  him  with  an  earnest  and  bewitching  manner  that  it  would 
speedily  restore  him  to  health.  Indeed,  so  great  was  her  solici- 
tude, and  so  assiduous  her  attention  to  the  sick  one,  that  the  dark 
eye  of  the  stately  young  Indian  warrior  flashed  with  suspicion  that 
her  manner  revealed  a  warm  feeling  of  regard;  and,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  the  passion  of  jealousy,  so  common  to  the  Indian, 
rankled  for  the  first  time  in  his  heart. 

There  is  as  powerful  a  language  in  the  manner  of  woman,  and 
in  the  varied  expressions  of  her  eye,  as  in  the  bewitching  words 
of  her  tongue,  and  that  language  is  not  less  easily  understood 
when  it  appeals  to  the  heart.  Where  is  the  man  who  does  not  at 
once  recognize  her  sweet  look  of  love ;  her  gentle  glance  of  appro- 
bation: her  averted  expression  of  offended  modesty;  or  her  with- 
ering scowl  of  scorn?  The  eye  of  woman  is  the  very  dial-plate  of 
her  feelings  and  affections;  the  very  mirror  of  her  mind,  from 
which  the  lights  and  shadows  of  her  soul  are  reflected. 

But  the  young  warrior,  who  stood  silent  and  stately  as  the  tower- 
ing monarch  of  the  mountain  forest,  affected  the  indifference  to 
the  scene  before  him,  that  is  so  characteristic  of  the  aborigines  of 
America.  But  when  they  had  left,  and  he  sat  alone  with  Manitoo 
beneath  the  shade  of  an  oak  in  the  distant  forest,  Mandika,  the 
young  warrior,  revealed  to  the  confused  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine 
his  suspicion  that  the  pale-face  had  stolen  from  him  the  affections 
of  her  heart.  Her  downcast  looks  of  maiden  modesty  confirmed 
his  suspicion,  and  he  bit  his  lips  with  rage,  and  resolved  to  appeal 
to  her  adopted  father,  Undine.  He  did  not  upbraid  her  with  in- 
constancy; yet,  with  a  stolen  glance,  she  saw  reflected  from  his 
eye  the  dark  storm  of  jealousy;  the  revengeful  tempest  of  passion 
that  was  raging  in  his  soul. 

Mandika  arose  with  insulted  feelings,  for  nothing  so  wounds 
the  pride  of  an  Indian  warrior  as  to  be  slighted  in  love,  or  to  meet 
with  infidelity  in  the  heart  upon  whose  constancy  he  had  placed 
implicit  confidence.  He  arose;  took  the  hand  of  Maniloo,  and 
bending  upon  her  a  withering  look  of  scorn,  he  threw  it  from  him 
with  disdain  and  fled  with  the  speed  of  a  deer.  Manitoo  was 
astonished,  for  she  had  never  been  accustomed  to  any  treatment 
from  the  tribe  of  her  princely  father  but  that  of  homage,  and  the 
most  affectionate  kindness  and  obedience  to  her  wishes.  Her 
influence  arose  in  part  from  the  distinction  of  her  birth,  and  more 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

from  the  fascinating  power  of  her  beauty.  This  was  the  first  time 
she  had  ever  experienced  unkindness,  or  had  been  treated  with 
indignity;  but  instead  of  creating  resentment  in  her  soul,  it  awoke 
her  gentle  heart  to  tenderness  and  sorrow,  and  as  she  arose  to  go 
to  the  wigwam,  she  burst  into  tears. 

Harry,  by  the  powerful  medicinal  properties  of  the  herbs  which 
Manitoo  had  given  him,  gradually  recovered,  until  he  entirely  re- 
gained his  health,  and  returned  to  town.  He  had  not  now  seen 
that  fascinating  being,  who  had  saved  his  life,  for  several  weeks; 
though  he  frequently  repaired  at  night  to  the  rock  on  the  Brandy- 
wine,  long  after  called  the  lover's  rock,  where  he  first  beheld  her 
in  all  her  singular  and  winning  beauty.  He  longed  to  behold  her 
once  more,  that  he  might  fall  at  her  feet,  and  confess  the  passion 
he  felt  for  one  who  had  braved  the  danger  of  contagious  disease, 
and  generously  brought  to  him  the  means  of  life  and  health. 

Ah!  what  is  there  in  this  world  of  affliction,  that  so  quickly  and 
lastingly  opens  the  heart  to  the  hallowed  influence  of  love  as 
sympathy,  kindness  and  attention,  in  the  hour  of  sickness,  distress 
and  danger,  when  fond,  confiding,  faithful  woman  comes  like  a 
minister  of  mercy,  to  heal  by  her  heavenly  influence  the  sinking 
energies  of  man?  More  than  once  have  I  seen  beside  the  bed  of 
sickness,  two  hearts  cemented  together  in  the  holy  bonds  of 
affection,  by  that  mysterious  chain  of  sympathetic  feeling,  which 
is  seldom  ever  broken.  More  than  once  have  I  seen  a  youth  lead 
the  fair  and  beautiful  object  of  his  idolatry  to  the  altar,  whose  heart 
had  never  acknowledged  the  witchery  of  woman's  charms,  until 
she  came  like  an  angel  of  the  earth,  in  the  hour  of  affliction,  to 
bathe  his  burning  brow,  to  administer  the  balm  of  relief  in  sick- 
ness, and  gently  smooth  the  pillow  of  repose  with  her  soft  hand. 
There  is  indeed  a  magic  charm  in  the  attentions  of  woman  at  any 
time,  and  under  any  circumstances,  when  we  are  chained  to  the 
comfortless  couch  of  agonizing  disease.  Who  has  not  known  the 
kind  attentions  of  a  fond  mother;  who  has  not  felt  the  sweet  sym- 
pathy of  an  affectionate  sister,  or  acknowledged  the  untiring  devo- 
tion of  a  faithful  wife,  when  the  raging  fire  of  fever  was  burning 
on  the  altar  of  his  heart,  and  faint  with  sickness,  his  soul  was 
ready  to  sink  in  despair?  Who  that  has  known  the  sweets  of  home 
and  has  wandered  far  among  strangers,  has  not  mourned  over  the 
absence  of  those  gentle  attentions,  and  winning  influences,  and 
holy  hallowed  sympathies  of  heavenly  woman,  while  he  suffered 
the  pangs  of  excruciating  disease?  It  has  been  said  that  woman, 
by  her  weakness  in  the  garden  of  Eden,  brought  ruin  and  misery 


532  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFOKD    BARD. 

upon  mankind;  but  tell  me,  ye  contemners  of  female  affection, 
has  she  not  amply  redeemed  the  wrong  by  the  earthly  heaven  she 
has  created  in  the  heart  of  man?  No  wonder  that  Adam  followed 
the  angel  Eve  from  the  paradise  from  which  she  had  been  driven; 
for,  though  he  had  been  rendered  unhappy  by  her,  without  her  he 
would  have  been  a  far  greater  wretch. 

It  was  some  time  after  the  events  narrated,  that  Harry  while 
amusing  himself  in  a  hunting  expedition,  which  he  extended  far 
into  the  then  dense  and  almost  interminable  forest  adjoining  Wil- 
mington, was  startled  by  the  distant  yell  and  war-whoop.  Fear- 
less of  danger,  and  adventurous  in  disposition,  he  turned  his  steps 
in  the  direction  from  which  the  sounds  came,  anxious  to  discover 
some  human  being  who  could  direct  him  in  his  course  home,  he 
having  lost  his  way  in  the  circuitous  route  he  had  taken.  He  had 
not  proceeded  more  than  a  mile,  when  a  scene  broke  upon  his 
view  which  he  had  never  before  witnessed,  and  which  gratified 
him;  for  he  was  passionately  fond  of  the  wild,  the  wonderful,  and 
romantic.  The  council-fire,  around  which  the  Indians  had  met  that 
day  in  grave  debate,  was  not  yet  extinguished,  and  they  were  per- 
forming the  war-dance.  As  soon  as  Manitoo  beheld  Harry,  she 
gracefully  motioned  him  to  advance;  and,  after  whispering  in  the 
ear  of  the  chief,  her  father,  who  was  arrayed  in  all  the  glittering-, 
gaudy  magnificence  of  an  eastern  monarch,  she  flew  to  his  side, 
seized  his  hand  affectionately,  and  led  him  to  the  centre  of  the 
circle  of  warriors,  and  seated  him  on  a  kind  of  fantastic  throne  or 
chair,  ingeniously  made  of  the  branches  of  the  oak,  the  hickory, 
and  grape-vine,  and  festooned  with  the  gayest  flowers  of  the  forest. 
She  then  filled  and  lighted  the  calumet  of  peace;  and  after  pre- 
senting it  to  the  bewildered  and  delighted  Harry,  the  war-dance 
recommenced.  Near  the  centre  sat  the  beautiful  Manitoo.  with  a 
number  of  Indian  girls,  and  the  warriors  brandishing  their  toma- 
hawks and  waving  their  glittering  knives,  as  in  battle,  kept  time  to 
the  singularly  solemn  music  of  a  kind  of  drum,  on  which  several 
dusky  damsels  were  incessantly  beating;  while  ever  and  anon  from 
the  lips  of  the  excited  warriors  issued  the  shrill  scream  of  agony, 
the  yell  of  revenge,  and  the  loud  war-whoop  of  triumph,  imitating 
at  the  same  time  the  manner  in  which  the  unerring  arrow  is  des- 
patched from  the  bow  in  battle.  Round  and  round  went  the  whole 
band,  throwing  their  arms  and  gleaming  knives  and  tomahawks  in 
the  air,  and  stamping  with  their  feet  in  perfect  time  with  the  mu- 
sic ;  while  their  yells  and  war-whoops  rung  through  the  forest,  till 
suddenly  a  signal  was  given  by  the  beautiful  Manitoo,  and  the 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD.  533 

dance  ceased;  each  warrior  ran  to  his  seat,  and  silence  reigned 
supreme.  Harry  was  in  perfect  ecstasy  at  witnessing  so  romantic 
a  scene.  While  he  yet  mused  upon  the  strange  manners  and  sin- 
gular customs  of  those  uneducated  children  of  the  forest,  the 
whole  group  arose,  as  with  one  accord,  with  their  faces  to  the 
East;  and  then  turning  to  the  West,  they  all  simultaneously  bowed 
down  on  their  knees  before  the  setting  sun,  while  the  medicine 
man,  prophet,  or  priest,  gave  thanks  in  a  short  address  to  the  Great 
Spirit,  who  had  guided  their  arrows  and  given  them  triumph  in  the 
hour  of  battle.  So  solemn  was  the  scene  that  the  heart  of  Wild 
Harry  thrilled  with  emotion,  and  a  feeling  of  veneration  for  their 
superstitious  worship  crept  involuntarily  into  his  mind. 

"Why,"  said  Harry,  mentally,  "should  we  have  a  contempt  for 
the  religious  worship  of  the  Indian,  since  he  bends  his  knee  be- 
fore that  glorious  luminary  of  Heaven  which  gives  light  and  life 
to  creation,  as  a  type  of  that  more  glorious  light,  that  infinitely 
greater  luminary,  who  not  only  guides  and  governs,  but  is  the 
centre  and  soul  of  the  universe?" 

Harry  thus  mused  some  time,  till  Manitoo  approached  him  with 
a  very  graceful  step  and  winning  air,  though  all  unconscious  of 
her  grace,  and  presented  to  him  a. bunch  of  wild  flowers,  tied  with 
a  belt  beautifully  embroidered  with  silk  beads  in  the  manner  in 
which  her  own  moccasins  or  slippers  were  adorned.  She  pre- 
sented her  hand;  he  arose,  kissed  her  forehead,  and  seated  her 
beside  him,  while  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  illumined  her 
perfect  features. 

During  this  scene,  which  was  witnessed  with  pleasure  by  all  the 
group,  Mandika,  the  young  warrior  and  once  successful  lover  of 
the  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  sat  gloomily  apart,  watching  with 
the  dark,  dazzling  eye  of  a  serpent,  the  pale-faced  lover.  Had 
the  fang  of  a  poisonous  reptile  been  fixed  in  his  heart,  he  could 
not  have  writhed  in  greater  agony  than  he  experienced  from  that 
envy  and  jealousy  which  were  rankling  in  his  soul.  The  beautiful 
Maniloo  occasionally  cast  her  large,  languishing,  and  melting  dark 
eye  towards  him  with  a  kind  of  triumph;  for  she,  like  her  sex 
generally,  when  in  the  brilliant  blaze  of  beauty,  was  a  coquette, 
and  loved  to  tantalize  an  envious,  despairing  lover. 

Metaphysical  philosophers  have  not  told  us  whether  or  not  co- 
quetry is,  like  conscience,  the  creature  of  education;  but  I  am 
inclined  to  the  opinion  that  it  is  a  natural  instinct  in  the  heart  or 
mind  of  woman,  and  many  times,  when  judiciously  exercised,  con- 
stitutes her  most  peculiar  and  powerful  charm.  Hence  all  gentle- 


534  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

men  of  sense  have  agreed  that  coquetry  is  the  birth-right  and 
beautiful  privilege  of  a  lady.  She  must  not  trample  feelings  that 
she  cannot  prize,  but  that,  however,  no  lady  will  do;  and  hence, 
if  a  lover  would  be  irresistibly  captivated,  and  see  woman  in  her 
most  winning  and  bewitching  charms,  he  must  see  her  as  a  co- 
quette, flying  like  a  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower,  but  at  last  set- 
tling on  the  sweetest  one. 

Mandika  knew  how  to  bend  the  bow,  and  to  aim  the  arrow  and 
the  tomahawk  in  the  deadly  strife  of  war,  when  the  thunder  and 
whirlwind  of  battle  were  rolling  by  him ;  but  he  knew  not  that  to 
be  completely  captivated  by  woman,  he  must  be  kept  in  doubt  as 
well  as  hope;  for  what  is  easily  obtained,  we  seldom  set  much 
value  upon.  Hear  it,  ye  modern  beauties  of  the  Brandywine! — 
aye,  and  of  Wilmington,  too ! — if  ye  would  bind  the  heart  of  a 
man  with  a  chain  that  shall  be  stronger  than  one  of  adamant,  and 
that  shall  never  be  broken,  ye  must  not  suffer  the  light  of  hope  to 
burst  too  brightly  on  his  soul;  for  as  the  eye  may  gaze  upon  the 
dazzling  diamond  until  it  seems  to  become  dim,  so  does  love 
when  too  luxuriously  successful,  pall  upon  the  heart  of  man,  in 
the  same  manner  that  a  rich  dinner  satiates  the  appetite  and  loses 
its  flavor,  when  the  stomach  is  gorged  to  gluttony.  Money  that 
is  easily  made,  is  little  valued  and  soon  spent.  So  it  is  with  love; 
and  so  with  every  thing.  The  bride  is  never  so  blessed  in  the 
heart  of  her  husband,  as  when  he  has  labored  hard,  and  braved 
every  thing  to  obtain  her — braved  her  own  coquetry,  as  well  as  the 
determined  opposition  of  her  friends. 

The  young  warrior  was  not  skilled  in  the  art  and  mystery  of 
love,  yet  his  fears  were  well  founded  as  it  happened ;  for  though 
he  had  wooed  the  charming  Manitoo  with  all  a  warrior's  ardor, 
and  with  all  a  lover's  language,  her  heart  remained  insensible  to 
the  passion  that  was  consuming  his  sensitive  soul.  The  dark  and 
desperate  thought  occurred  to  his  mind  that  if  he  could  find  an 
opportunity  to  despatch  Harry  secretly,  the  idol  of  his  soul,  the 
beautiful  Manitoo,  would  be  all  his  own.  But  how  could  he  man- 
age the  matter?  Harry  was  under  the  necessity  of  returning  home 
through  an  extensive  forest;  for  the  beautiful  farms,  the  fields  of 
which  now  wave  with  golden  grain,  were  then  overshadowed  by 
lofty  oaks  that  had  braved  the  storms  of  centuries,  and  Mandika 
conceived  the  plan  of  following  him,  as  a  pretended  guide,  and  in 
an  unguarded  moment  strike  him  down  with  his  tomahawk.  But 
what  if  he  should  miss  his  aim?  Harry  was  a  powerful  man,  and 
had  with  him  the  deadly  rifle  for  his  defence,  as  the  reader  is  aware 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  535 

that  he  had  been  on  a  hunting  or  sporting  excursion.  The  young 
warrior  was  a  sufficient  judge  of  men  to  be  aware  that  Harry 
would  not  die  without  a  desperate  struggle,  and  he  abandoned  the 
stratagem  as  a  dangerous  one. 

The  dim  shadows  of  evening  were  now  fast  creeping  through 
the  forest,  and  the  mocking-bird  was  singing  in  the  great  church  of 
nature  his  hymn  to  departing  day,  when  Harry  arose,  and  pressing 
the  hand  of  Manitoo,  prepared  to  depart.  Undine,  the  chief,  per- 
ceiving his  preparation,  advanced  and  pressed  him  to  remain  with 
them  through  the  night,  as  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  find 
his  way  home  through  the  gloom  of  the  forest.  The  chief  was 
flattered  by  the  attention  Harry  paid  to  his  daughter,  and  he  hoped 
by  their  union  to  secure  advantages  and  privileges  from  the  pale- 
faces. While  thus  pressing  him  to  remain,  Mandika,  to  the  aston- 
ishment of  the  young  squaws,  came  up  with  a  smiling  counte- 
nance, if  he  could  be  said  ever  to  wear  a  smile,  and  joined  the 
chief  in  his  solicitation. 

After  some  hesitation  Harry  yielded  to  their  desire,  so  earnestly 
and  warmly  expressed,  and  immediately  the  chief  gave  orders  to 
the  squaws  to  prepare  a  feast,  as  it  was  his  design  to  make  merry 
and  entertain  the  pale-face  as  he  should  be  entertained  by  a 
mighty  chief,  whose  will  was  law,  and  whose  word  must  be 
obeyed.  The  utensils  for  cooking  were  brought  from  the  wigwam, 
placed  over  the  fire,  and  the  most  delicious  pieces  of  wild-cat  and 
bear-meat  were  placed  in  them ;  but  no  one  dared  approach  even 
to  steal  a  smell  from  the  savory  and  luxurious  repast,  until  it  was 
served  up  and  the  signal  was  given  to  partake. 

Harry  felt  a  repugnance  to,  and  a  prejudice  against  the  use  of 
bear-meat,  to  say  nothing  of  that  of  the  wild-cat;  but  he  knew 
that  an  Indian  hated  nothing  so  mortally  as  to  see  his  kindness 
slighted,  and  exercising  that  philosophy  which  teaches  a  man  to 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain,  he  dipped  into  the  enormous 
trencher,  and  tore  the  half-cooked  meat  so  vigorously  with  his 
teeth,  that  the  heart  of  the  truly  good  old  chief  was  filled  with 
rapture. 

"Ah!  my  children,"  exclaimed  the  chief,  "you  now  be  fit  for 
good  talk.  You  no  fit  for  good  talk  till  you  eat.  You  love  Indian, 
you  love  pale-face,  you  love  the  Great  Spirit  more  when  you  no 
hungry." 

This  language  of  Undine,  addressed  to  the  whole  group,  was 
true  philosophy;  for  the  nerves  of  an  empty  stomach  are  irritable, 
and  the  great  sympathy  existing  between  the  stomach  and  brain, 


" 

536  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD   BARD. 

causes  a  man  to  be  very  ill-natured  when  hungry  for  his  dinner. 
Never  ask  a  favor  just  before  dinner,  if  you  wish  to  obtain  it,  but 
apply  a  short  time  after,  when  the  man  becomes  lazy,  for  lazy 
people  are  invariably  good-natured.  Should  you  see  an  industri- 
ous housewife,  fly  from  her  broom-handle;  for  you  will  find  her  a 
termagant  and  a  tartar.  Should  the  writer  of  this  narrative  ever 

O 

exchange  the  bliss  of  celibacy  for  the  silken  bonds  of  matrimony, 
may  the  gods  grant  him  a  lazy  wife.  Smile  not,  ye  dashing  dam- 
sels of  Delaware,  nor  turn  up  your  pretty  noses,  for  every  word  is 
as  true  as  Gospel;  for  ye  may  have  "proofs  from  Holy  Writ." 

The  whole  group  of  Indians,  with  Harry  in  the  midst,  were  now 
seated  before  one  of  the  wigwams,  and  the  full  moon  illuminated 
the  scene.  The  lighted  calumet,  or  pipe  of  peace,  was  handed  to 
Harry,  and  from  him  it  passed  round,  until  it  had  pressed  the  lips 
of  all  save  Mandika;  who,  like  a  tiger  in  his  cage,  was  walking 
backward  and  forward  before  the  wigwam,  with  his  arms  folded 
and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  The  beautiful  Manitoo,  who 
was  using  every  little  art,  which  woman  so  well  knows  how  to  use, 
to  engage  the  attention  of  Harry,  still  kept  her  eyes  upon  Mandika, 
and  felt  in  her  mind  a  dark  foreboding  of  evil,  while  her  pale-faced 
lover  remained  as  unconscious  as  he  was  fearless  of  danger.  The 
young  Indian  warrior  as  the  fire-water  or  liquor  passed  round,  fre- 
quently stepped  up  and  indulged  in  deep  potations;  for  temperance 
societies  were  then  unknown. 

The  manner  of  Mandika,  though  he  said  nothing,  seemed  to 
become  more  and  more  ferocious,  as  the  quantities  of  meat  and 
fire-water  he  had  taken  began  to  operate;  and  his  clenched  hands, 
meditative  mood,  and  singular  gestures,  seemed  to  indicate  that  a 
storm  was  rising  in  his  soul.  Still  he  walked  to  and  fro  without 
seeming  to  notice  that  being,  whose  beauty  was  the  idol  of  his 
heart;  or  his  successful  rival,  whom  he  now  hated  with  an  Indian's 
hatred. 

Lord  Byron  was  of  the  opinion,  that  eating  meat  has  a  tendency 
to  render  men  savage  and  ferocious;  and  if  we  look  into  the  great 
field  of  nature,  we  find  the  fact  corroborated  by  observation  and 
analogy.  Savage  nations  feed  principally  on  flesh,  and  as  we  ad- 
vance step  by  step  to  the  highest  grade  of  civilized  society,  we 
find  among  the  refined  and  intellectual,  that  flesh  constitutes  less 
and  less  a  constituent  part  of  diet.  Beasts  that  feed  on  flesh  are 
ferocious;  as  the  lion,  the  tiger,  the  wolf,  and  the  dog;  the  hyena, 
so  fond  of  human  flesh,  being  most  ferocious  of  all,  and  in  some 
species  untameable;  while  on  the  contrary,  those  animals  that 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  537 

feed  upon  grain  and  other  vegetable  matter  are  gentle,  whether  in 
the  forest  or  field ;  as  the  horse,  the  ox,  the  elephant,  the  camel, 
the  deer  and  sheep. 

Be  this  matter  as  it  may,  the  savage  fury  of  the  tiger  was  raging 
in  the  heart  of  the  young  warrior,  while  Manitoo  was  bestowing 
her  smiles  on  the  handsome  pale-faced  guest.  Still  flowed  the 
fire-water  round  that  circle  of  hunters,  warriors,  and  dark-eyed 
damsels,  till  mirth  filled  every  heart,  save  that  of  Mandika,  and 
the  whole  group  arose,  mingling  in  the  spirit-stirring  dance.  Again 
the  strange  sound  of  the  instrument  used,  went  echoing  through 
the  dim  and  dun  shades  of  the  silent  forest;  and  though  doleful 
to  the  ear  of  Harry,  it  had  in  it  a  romantic  charm  that  fascinated 
his  heart. 

The  moon,  the  empress  of  the  night,  now  walked  high  in  heaven, 
like  bridal  beauty  in  her  hall,  when  a  signal  was  given  by  the 
chief,  and  in  an  instant  the  dancers  ceased  their  wild  carousal, 
and  the  sound  of  the  drum  no  longer  reverberated  through  the 
wild  recesses  of  the  woodland.  All  retired  to  their  wigwams  to 
repose;  and,  according  to  custom,  Harry,  the  guest,  was  invited 
to  stretch  his  limbs  on  bear-skins  and  buffalo-hides,  spread  on  the 
floor  of  the  wigwam  occupied  by  the  chief  and  his  lovely  daughter, 
the  far-famed  beauty  of  the  Brandywine. 

All  was  now  silent  in  the  forest,  save  the  sounds  that  issued 
from  the  locusts  among  the  lofty  trees;  but  Manitoo  in  vain  sought 
to  close  her  eyes  in  sleep.  There  was  a  mysterious  presentiment 
in  her  mind  of  evil,  and  yet  she  knew  not  why,  or  feared  to  con- 
fess it  to  herself;  for  so  dim  were  the  outlines  of  her  foreboding, 
that  it  seemed  but  the  fairy  fabric  of  a  dream.  But  while  her 
gentle  spirit  started  at  the  sound  of  every  passing  breeze  sighing 
in  sweetness  among  the  wild  flowers  of  the  forest,  the  chief  and 
his  guest,  overcome  by  the  influence  of  the  fire-water,  slept  soundly, 
unconscious  of  danger;  and  though  Harry  had  never  before  spent 
a  night  among  the  Indians  in  the  gloom  of  the  wilderness,  and 
though  he  knew  that  he  had  blighted  in  the  heart  of  the  Indian 
maiden  the  blossoms  of  Mandika's  love,  and  that  the  wrath  of  his 
rival  was  terrible;  yet  he  slumbered  calmly,  and  feared  no  evil. 

The  moon  was  sinking  in  the  western  heavens,  and  yet  the 
beautiful  eyes  of  Manitoo  had  not  been  closed  in  slumber.  Sud- 
denly she  heard  the  stealthy  step,  as  she  supposed,  of  some  animal 
prowling  around  the  wigwam  in  search  of  the  bones  and  refuse 
meat  thrown  upon  the  ground,  and  instantly  leaping  to  her  feet 
with  the  agility  of  a  chamois,  she  seized  the  rifle  which  Harry  had 
68 


538  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

placed  against  the  side  of  the  wigwam.  The  door  of  the  wigwam 
was  open,  and  concealing  herself  near  the  door,  behind  a  buffalo 
skin  which  hung  against  the  wall,  she  awaited  the  approach  of  the 
ravenous  animal,  resolving  to  take  deliberate  aim,  and  send  death's 
messenger  to  its  heart. 

But  gentle  reader,  imagine  her  horror  and  alarm  when,  instead 
of  a  wild  beast,  she  beheld  a  man  in  disguise  steal  into  the  wigwam, 
and  search  as  if  looking  for  something  lost.  Paralyzed  with  fear, 
she  for  a  moment  could  not  move  or  speak,  and  during  that  brief 
period  she  saw  him  draw  from  his  belt  a  glittering  knife,  ready  to 
strike  it  home,  to  the  heart  of  the  still  sleeping  Harry.  She 
screamed,  as  she  leaped  from  her  concealment,  with  the  rifle  in 
her  hand ;  but  neither  of  the  sleepers  awoke,  for  they  were  over- 
come by  the  liquor  they  had  drank.  Elevating  the  deadly  weapon, 
she  cried  out  in  the  Indian  dialect — "  Marderer,  dare  not  to  strike 
the  innocent  and  the  helpless,  or  I  call  the  Great  Spirit  to  witness, 
that  by  the  hand  of  her  you  love  you  shall  perish  on  his  lifeless  body." 

Mandika  started  and  dropped  the  knife  which  he  was  about  to 
baptize  in  blood,  as  if  her  voice  had  been  a  thunder-bolt  aimed  at 
his  heart  by  the  Great  Spirit.  The  light  at  the  door  displayed  her 
exquisitely  sculptured  form,  and  he  beheld  her  levelling  the  fatal 
rifle  at  his  breast;  and  well  he  knew  from  her  determined,  though 
gentle  spirit,  that  no  sooner  would  his  knife  drink  the  life-blood  of 
the  sleeper,  than  her  unerring  aim  would  send  the  ball  to  its  des- 
tination. As  an  Indian  princess,  he  felt,  too,  that  she  was  born 
to  command;  and  he  crept  by  her  and  disappeared  from  the  wig- 
wam, like  an  evil  spirit,  without  uttering  a  word. 

At  this  moment  Harry,  having  slept  off  the  fumes  of  the  liquor, 
was  roused  by  Manitoo,  as  she  fell  upon  her  knees  and  in  impas- 
sioned eloquence  offered  her  thanks  to  the  Great  Spirit,  who  had 
warned  her  of  danger  and  thus  placed  it  in  her  power  to  save  the 
life  of  him  she  loved.  The  Indians  were  then,  as  they  are  now, 
extremely  superstitious;  and  the  young  Beauty  of  the  Brandy  wine 
religiously  believed  that  an  especial  token  had  been  given  her,  that 
she  might  rescue  Harry  from  impending  destruction.  Smile  not, 
ye  accomplished  belles  of  the  present  day,  at  the  simplicity  of  her 
belief;  for  superstition,  even  now,  rears  her  throne  in  the  halls  of 
learning,  and  sways  with  an  iron  sceptre  the  most  gigantic  minds 
that  illuminate  the  world. 

Aurora,  with  her  pencil  dipped  in  gold,  was  just  beginning  to 
paint  the  orient,  and  to  scatter  flowers  in  the  pathway  of  the  god 
of  day.  She  related  to  the  astonished  Harry  how  he  had,  through 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  539 

her  watchful  devotion,  escaped  imminent  death;  and  as  she  spoke, 
he  made  an  effort  to  snatch  the  rifle  from  her  hands,  with  the  in- 
tention of  instantly  taking  vengeance  on  the  assassin;  but  she 
eluded  his  grasp,  and  exclaimed  in  broken  English — "Beware, 
rash  man,  nor  attempt  to  imbrue  your  hands  in  his  blood.  Know 
you  not  that,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Indians,  it  would 
prove  certain  death  to  you,  should  you  madly  slay  him?  His 
father :  his  brother ;  aye,  or  even  his  sister,  would  pursue  yo-ur 
steps,  and  never  rest  until  the  hands  of  one  of  them  should  reek 
with  your  gore." 

This  was  the  substance  of  her  language,  and  Harry  remembered 
to  have  read  of  the  custom  among  the  Indians  of  retaliation  for 
the  murder  of  a  relative,  in  some  instances  of  which  whole  fami- 
lies had  been  exterminated,  and  a  brother  as  the  avenger  of  a 
murdered  brother,  had  pursued  the  murderer  hundreds  of  miles, 
through  forests  and  morasses,  until  his  knife  was  red  with  revenge. 
Then,  in  turn,  he  was  pursued  by  the  father  or  brother  of  his  vic- 
tim ;  or  was  given  up  by  his  friends,  that  his  blood  might  appease 
their  wrath. 

Though  Harry,  perhaps,  had  never  seen  the  pages  of  the  immor- 
tal poet,  he  wisely  concluded  with  Shakspeare,  that  "  discretion 
is  the  better  part  of  valor,"  and  resolved  to  pass  the  matter  over 
in  silence,  though  his  dauntless  soul  feared  not  a  single  arm 
among  the  daring  warriors  of  the  tribe. 

Without  waking  the  chief,  he  concluded  an  arrangement  with 
Manitoo,  by  which  they  should  meet  by  moonlight  on  the  bank  of 
the  Brandywine ;  and,  after  she  had  directed  him  the  course  he 
was  to  take  through  the  forest,  he  fondly  embraced  her,  vowing 
eternal  constancy  for  her  affection,  and  gratitude  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  his  life.  He  received  from  her  beautiful  hand  a  token  of 
her  own  fidelity,  and  bidding  adieu,  he  shouldered  his  rifle,  and 
started  through  the  wild,  unbroken  solitude  of  the  forest.  Musing 
upon  the  singular  adventure  and  the  event  of  the  night,  he  as- 
cended a  hill  and  turned  to  see  if  he  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  that 
being,  who  had  so  miraculously  preserved  him  from  inevitable 
death.  There,  on  the  same  spot  where  he  had  left  her,  he  beheld 
the  stately  form  of  the  princess ;  her  exquisite  eye  still  bent  upon 
his  receding  figure,  and  again  and  again,  as  he  travelled  on,  he 
turned  and  fondly  waved  her  adieu,  until  she  was  lost  to  his  view 
in  the  dim  distance  of  the  forest. 

When  Harry  arrived  at  home  about  mid-day,  he  discovered  that 
his  mother  and  sister  Julia  had  been  much  distressed  about  his 


540  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

absence;  fearing  from  his  wild  and  reckless  disposition,  that  he 
had  encountered  Indians  during  his  hunting  expedition,  or  that 
some  other  danger  had  beset  his  path;  for  he  had  promised  to 
return  at  night,  and  they  had  never  known  him  to  falsify  his  word. 
Harry  explained,  or  related  to  them  how  he  had  been  lost  and  had 
spent  the  night  with  the  Indians,  at  which  Julia  turned  pale,  while 
his  aged  mother  fondly  embraced  him ;  for  though  she  had  two 
other  sons  on  the  sea,  like  most  mothers  she  loved  the  wildest 
most. 

The  fair  Julia  Dewaldsen  feared,  from  the  romantic  peculiarities 
of  her  brother,  and  from  having  more  than  once  overheard  him  in 
his  sleep  addressing  some  imaginary  being  with  a  singular  name, 
that  he  had  formed  an  attachment  to  some  Indian  girl,  well  know- 
ing from  her  intellectual  acquirement,  that  truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction.  She  knew  that  the  more  wild  and  romantic  the  attachment, 
the  more  fascinating  would  it  prove  to  the  heart  of  Harry.  And 
then  she  had  noticed  his  abstracted  manner,  his  musing  moods, 
his  absence  of  mind  and  love  of  solitude,  which  she  knew  to  be 
the  certain  symptoms  of  a  soul  in  love.  She  had  never  mentioned 
her  suspicion,  even  to  his  mother,  and  resolved  while  she  kept  the 
secret  locked  in  her  bosom,  to  discover  by  some  means  whether 
or  not  her  suspicion  was  correct. 

Nothing  so  wounds  the  sensibility  of  a  high-souled  sister,  as  to 
discover  an  attachment  between  her  brother  and  an  object  whom 
she  considers  inferior  to  him.  Julia  had  noticed  the  frequent 
absence  of  Harry  during  summer  evenings,  and  she  determined, 
if  possible,  to  follow  him  and  discover  whither  he  went,  and  for 
what  object.  But  she  found  it  next  to  impossible  to  do  so,  for 
when  he  left  home  he  frequently  visited  a  dozen  places  in  an  op- 
posite direction,  before  he  repaired  to  the  lover's  rock. 

Time  rolled  on,  and  every  other  evening  he  met  the  Indian 
Beauty  of  the  Brandywine  at  the  place  appointed,  and  every  time 
they  met,  the  silken  chain  of  love  that  bound  their  hearts,  became 
stronger  and  stronger.  •  The  Indian  maiden,  like  women  gene- 
rally, adorned  her  person  to  please  her  lover;  and  every  night  they 
met,  she  came  down  the  Brandywine  in  her  bark  canoe,  arrayed 
in  all  the  splendid  attire  of  a  lady  belonging  to  a  Turkish  harem. 
Her  robe,  like  the  Roman  toga,  displayed  the  graceful  proportions 
of  her  perfect  person  to  the  best  advantage :  while  it  was  adorned 
with  all  the  gay  and  gaudy  tinsel  ornaments  that  Indian  taste  and 
female  vanity  could  suggest.  Brilliant  and  beautiful  indeed  was 
her  appearance,  as  she  approached  in  her  canoe  by  the  light  of  the 


WRITINGS    OP  THE   MILFORD    BARD.  541 

moon,  falling  in  dazzling  brightness  on  the  many-colored  beads 
and  tinsel  ornaments  that  profusely  adorned  her  princely  dress. 
Cleopatra,  queen  of  Egypt,  when  she  came  down  the  river  Cydnus 
in  her  gorgeous  glory,  her  barge  with  silken  sails,  and  gilded  oars, 
keeping  time  to  a  band  of  music,  while  she  reclined  upon  a  crim- 
son couch  fanned  by  the  loveliest  maidens,  made  not  a  greater 
impression  upon  the  soul  of  Mark  Antony,  than  did  the  Indian 
Beauty  of  the  Brandywine  upon  the  heart  of  Harry  Dewaldsen. 

It  was  on  a  charming  evening  in  spring,  or  the  beginning  of 
summer,  when  the  turtle-dove  was  cooing  to  its  mate  in  the  wood- 
land, and  nature  was  arrayed  in  her  richest  robes,  adorned  with 
flowers,  that  Harry  lay  reclining  on  the  bank  of  the  Brandywine, 
and  resting  his  head  in  the  lap  of  the  princess.  He  was  pouring 
in  her  delighted  ear  protestations  of  love,  as  most  men  do,  which 
he  had  not  asked  his  heart  whether  it  would  keep  or  not,  and  she 
was  sketching  plans  of  future  happiness  with  all  a  woman's  fancy, 
which  she  knew  not  whether  they  would  ever  be  realized.  Golden 
dreams  of  bliss  filled  their  young  hearts,  as  they  have  filled  the 
hearts  of  thousands  who  once  lived,  and  loved,  and  died,  and  the 
happy  hours  rolled  by  them  like  the  bright  and  beautiful  billows 
that  break  on  a  silvery  shore. 

While  Harry  was  thus  luxuriating  on  the  youthful  heart's  deli- 
cious banquet  of  love,  his  sister  Julia  approached  unseen,  and 
concealed  herself  behind  the  trunk  of  an  umbrageous  beech  tree, 
where  she  could  hear  every  word  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
unconscious  lovers.  Satisfied  at  length  in  her  own  mind,  with 
regard  to  the  intentions  of  her  brother,  and  horrified  at  the  idea 
of  his  becoming  betrothed  to  an  Indian,  though  that  Indian  was 
a  princess,  she  silently  left  the  spot  and  glided  through  the  gloom 
of  the  woodland  towards  home,  to  communicate  to  his  mother, 
and  some  relatives  who  lived  near  where  the  bridge  now  crosses 
the  Christiana,  the  tidings  of  the  disgrace  that  Harry  was  about 
to  bring  upon  his  family. 

When  Harry,  late  in  the  night,  was  about  to  bid  adieu  to  the 
happy-hearted  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  they  both  knelt  beneath 
the  silver  moon,  and  pledged  to  each  other  the  vow  of  constancy, 
little  thinking  how  changeable  a  witness  they  had  invoked  in  the 
bright  queen  of  Heaven. 

They  parted :  each  happy  in  the  consciousness  of  possessing 
the  other's  affections.  Oh!  how  happy  is  that  heart  that  first 
opens  its  portal  to  the  god  of  love ;  and  how  blissful  is  courtship 
in  the  days  of  youth  and  first  love.  It  is  by  far  the  happiest 


542  •       WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

period  of  life,  to  which  we  look  back  in  after  years,  as  to  a  green 
spot  in  the  waste  of  memory ;  for  then  the  hours  fly  by  on  golden 
wings,  and  the  wilderness  of  this  world  is  transformed,  by  the 
magic  wand  of  romance,  to  a  beautiful  ideal  world  of  dreams, 
adorned  with  fancy's  flowers. 

Harry  had  no  sooner  reached  home,  than  his  quick  perception 
took  cognizance  of  the  cloud  that  rested  on  the  countenances  of 
his  sister  and  mother.  They  questioned  him  as  to  the  purport  of 
his  late  absence  from  home,  but  a  sullen  silence,  and  an  imper- 
turbable gravity  rested  on  his  lips,  and  characterized  his  manner. 

"  Brother,"  at  length  interrogated  his  intellectual  sister,  Julia, 
"can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  madly  determined  to  form  an  alli- 
ance with  a  wild,  uneducated,  uncivilized  Indian  girl,  and  thus 
cast  a  stain  upon  the  character  of  your  family,  darker  than  the  hue 
of  her  skin?" 

"I  cannot  understand  you,"  returned  the  brother,  affecting  to 
be  a  stranger  to  the  purport  of  her  words. 

"Harry,"  continued  the  excited  sister,  "we  are  aware  of  your 
visits  to  the  banks  of  the  Brandywine ;  we  are  aware  of  the  object 
of  your  visits,  and  of  your  ill-fated  attachment.  Aye,  sir,  your 
footsteps  have  been  watched,  and  the  unhallowed  language  of 
your  lips  has  been  overheard  by  other  ears  than  those  to  which  it 
was  addressed.  For  shame,  my  brother!" 

"  The  greater  shame,"  retorted  Harry,  as  he  bent  his  stern  eye 
full  upon  Julia,  "  the  greater  shame  should  crimson  the  cheek  of 
those  who  meanly  follow  the  footsteps  of  another,  and  obtain  by 
stealth  the  secret  intended  for  a  private  ear." 

"  My  son,"  exclaimed  his  mother  with  deep  emotion,  "  did  I 
cradle  you  in  my  arms  in  infancy,  and  rear  you  with  all  the 
anxious  care  and  solicitude  of  a  fond  mother,  that  in  manhood 
you  should  become  the  husband  of  a  savage?" 

As  the  last  word  fell  from  her  lips,  Harry's  eyes  flashed  fire, 
and  his  whole  soul  was  moved  with  an  indefinable  passion. 

"She  is  no  savage,  madam,"  he  at  length  answered.  "The 
blood  that  circles  in  her  veins  is  as  gentle,  and  in  her  bosom  beats 
a  heart  as  noble,  as  even  those  may  boast  who  scorn  her  race. 
The  title  of  a  lady  springs  not  from  the  color  of  the  skin,  though 
it  be  as  fair  as  that  of  a  Scandinavian,  any  more  than  education 
gives  a  native  goodness  to  the  heart,  or  bestows  the  gem  of  genius 
on  the  mind.  As  lovely  a  flower  as  ever  blushed  or  blossomed, 
has  graced  the  silent  solitude  of  the  forest,  its  beauties  unmarked 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFROD    BARD.       .  543 

by  mortal  eyes.  Aye,  and  as  noble  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  a  hu- 
man bosom,  has  gloried  in  the  appellation  of  an  Indian." 

"But,  my  dear  brother,"  asked  Julia,  in  a  softer  tone,  "can  you 
render  those  you  love  wretched,  by  taking  to  your  arms  a  rude, 
uncultivated  Indian?" 

"  She  whom  you  affect  so  much  to  despise,"  bitterly  retorted 
Harry,  "is  not  only  worthy  of  your  warmest  esteem,  but  would  be 
an  honor  to  your  boasted  family,  as  well  as  an  ornament  to  the 
bosom  that  will  protect  her  from  contumely  and  scorn." 

As  these  words  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  incensed  young  man, 
he  seized  a  lighted  taper  and  retired  to  his  room.  Nothing  so 
wounds  the  sensitive  bosom,  as  to  hear  the  character  of  the  wor- 
shiped idol  of  his  heart  traduced;  and  so  great  was  the  perturba- 
tion of  Harry,  that  the  god,  Morpheus,  came,  not  near  his  eyelids 
that  night. 

The  next  day  a  consultation  was  held,  and  all  the  relatives  of 
Harry,  who  then  resided  in  and  around  the  village  of  Wilmington, 
were  summoned  in  secret  conclave,  among  whom  was  a  very 
wealthy  old  uncle,  just  tottering  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  whose 
day-book  was  his  Bible,  and  whose  gold  was  his  god.  He  was  a 
kind  of  mighty  Mogul  and  Mentor  in  the  family,  and  on  his  money- 
bags were  fixed  the  expectations  of  every  member  of  it;  for  money, 
like  music,  had  then,  as  now,  charms  to  soothe  the  civilized  as 
well  as  the  savage  breast.  Mike  Dewaldsen  was  well  aware  of  the 
influence  of  money,  and  had  he  been  a  demi-god,  he  could  not 
have  governed  the  family  with  more  tyrannic  sway. 

It  is  sufficient  to  inform  the  reader  that,  though  Harry  was  dead 
to  the  appeals  of  his  mother  and  sister,  the  silver-shod  arguments 
of  the  uncle  were  all-powerful,  and  that  through  fear  of  being  cut 
off  with  a  shilling  if  he  disobeyed,  and  the  promise  of  golden  re- 
ward if  he  obeyed,  backed  by  the  earnest  prayers  and  persuasions 
of  all,  Harry  was  induced  finally  to  repudiate  that  fond,  confiding 
girl,  who  would  have  sacrificed  her  life  to  secure  his  happiness. 
Yes,  for  filthy  lucre,  for  which  so  many  have  delved  and  died,  he 
resolved  to  sacrifice  that  pure  passion  which  burnt  like  a  vestal 
flame  on  the  altar  of  Manitoo's  heart,  and  to  throw  her  from  his 
bosom  like  a  worthless  weed  or  faded  flower. 

The  night  which  had  been  appointed  for  their  next  meeting  on 
lover's  rock  arrived,  and  Harry,  with  strange  feelings,  stood  upon 
the  bank  of  the  Brandywine,  which  no  longer  echoes  the  accents 
of  the  poor  Indian  girl's  despair.  She  came — her  heavenly  form 
enwreathed  with  flowers — and  as  she  approached  the  idol  of  her 


544  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

soul  with  sweetest  smiles,  and  attempted  to  embrace  him,  Harry 
coldly  stepped  back  and  said,  with  a  still  colder  tone  of  voice — 
"Manitoo,  the  Great  Spirit  has  willed  that  we  should  part." 

"Part!"  exclaimed  the  poor  girl,  as  she  turned  her  large  and 
languishing  eyes  to  heaven,  with  a  look  of  heart-breaking  woe, 
"Part!  ha!  ha!"  and  the  rocks  rang  with  her  hysterical  laugh. 

"Aye,  part  forever,"  continued  Harry.  "We  can  never  meet 
again!" 

The  bewildered  princess  gazed  on  him  some  time  in  silent  sor- 
row, while  torrents  of  tears  gushed  from  her  eyes.  But  as  the 
import  of  his  words  seemed  to  flash  upon  her  mind,  the  forest 
was  filled  with  the  echoes  of  the  poor  girl's  cries.  She  implored 
him  with  the  most  bewitching  earnestness,  and  with  the  tenderest, 
most  touching  epithets,  not  to  desert  her;  assuring  him  that  he 
possessed  her  whole  heart,  and  that  forsaken  by  him,  life  would 
no  longer  possess  a  charm  for  her.  While  he  stood  with  folded 
arms,  and  dashed  away  the  tear  that  gathered  on  his  cheek,  she 
reminded  him  of  his  solemn  vows,  and  mourned  in  her  despair 
over  the  happy  hours  of  love,  now  gone  forever. 

Harry  took  the  unhappy  girl  by  the  hand,  and  as  he  placed  a 
purse  of  gold  in  it,  which  she  threw  upon  the  earth  in  disdain,  he 
said — "Farewell,  beautiful  princess,  we  must  this  instant  part  for- 
ever. Be  happy,  if  you  can,  and  forget  me." 

As  he  released  her,  she  leaped  to  her  canoe,  turned  to  gaze 
upon  him  she  so  dearly  loved,  with  mingled  feelings  of  the  most 
poignant  sorrow  and  regret,  then  stepped  into  the  canoe  and 
pushed  off  into  the  stream.  Harry's  tearful  eye  followed  her  re- 
ceding form.  But  what  was  his  astonishment,  when  he  beheld  her, 
as  she  waved  a  last  adieu,  plunge  headlong  in  the  water,  and  dis- 
appear. He  wrung  his  hands  in  an  agony  of  sorrow,  and  gazed 
for  some  time  to  see  her  appear  on  the  surface,  but  alas!  he  be- 
held the  poor  distracted  girl  no  more. 

He  returned  home,  but  in  vain  he  attempted  to  banish  from  his 
mind  the  scene  he  had  witnessed.  Remorse  touched  his  heart, 
and  he  repented  having  rejected  the  love  of  so  noble  and  so  de- 
voted a  heart.  In  the  dreams  of  the  night  he  heard  the  melting 
accents  of  her  despair  at  parting,  and  beheld  her  drowning  strug- 
gles. In  his  waking  hours  the  memory  of  poor  Manitoo  was  ever 
present,  and  he  became  melancholy. 

Superstition  at  that  period  of  time,  as  well  as  at  the  present  day, 
held  sovereign  sway  over  the  minds  of  the  great  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  romantic  soul  of  Harry  Dewaldsen  was  completely  uu- 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILPORD    BARD.  545 

der  the  dominion  of  it;  so  much  so,  that  no  fortune-teller  could 
long  reside  in  the  neighborhood  without  receiving  a  visit  from  him. 
Not  far  from  the  spot  where  the  rail  road  bridge  now  crosses  the 
Brandywine,  resided  in  a  low  thatched  hovel,  "Old  Kate,  the  for- 
tune-teller," who  had  long  been  a  terror  to  children,  and  indeed 
to  many  grown  persons;  for  it  was  declared  that  she  dealt  with 
the  devil;  could  work  "gumber"  with  roots,  by  which  she  put 
spells  upon  people,  and  foretell  future  events.  She  had  but  one 
eye,  the  other,  it  was  supposed,  had  been  put  out  by  Squire 
Throglander,  who  had  loaded  his  gun  with  silver  and  shot  at  her 
picture,  on  account  of  a  spell  put  upon  his  child,  which  had  fits. 
Kate  was  a  wrinkled,  hump-backed,  ugly  old  hag;  and  she  was 
often  seen  wandering  about  the  country  with  a  bag  under  her  arm, 
though  no  one  professed  to  have  a  knowledge  of  the  contents  of 
that  bag.  Some  believed  it  to  be  the  depository  of  plunder,  but 
wiser  people  averred  that  it  was  filled  with  gumber  roots  to  work 
spells. 

Harry  had  often  visited  old  Kate,  and  she,  in  telling  his  fortune, 
invariably  told  him  the  same  story.  In  her  tea-cup  of  coffee- 
grounds  she  could  plainly  see  great  things  in  store  for  Harry. 
She  told  him  he  would  suffer  no  misfortune,  that  he  would  be  the 
husband  of  a  fair  Swede,  and  that  his  posterity  in  later  days  would 
be  a  disgrace  to  the  country  that  gave  them  birth. 

Since  Manitoo's  death,  Harry  was  far  from  being  happy.  The 
memory  of  her  wrongs  arose  before  his  mind,  and  he  half  resolved 
that  he  would  leave  the  colony  of  Delaware,  and  wander  over  the 
world  that  he  "might  forget  the  past. 

One  evening,  strolling  out  of  Wilmington  in  a  musing  mood, 
he  found  himself,  without  design,  wandering  in  the  grave-yard  of 
the  Swedes'  church.  Seating  himself  on  a  rude  bench,  which  had 
been  placed  between  two  trees,  which  then  stood  near  the  church, 
but  have  long  since  disappeared  before  the  tooth  of  time,  he  com- 
menced talking  aloud  as  was  his  custom,  of  the  course  of  life  he 
intended  to  pursue;  spoke  of  his  design  to  leave  his  native  town, 
and  of  the  route  which  he  should  take.  The  moon  was  in  her 
first  quarter,  and  illuminated  the  lonely  scene  around  him;  for  the 
Swedes'  church,  though  now  in  the  suburbs  of  the  city,  was  then 
a  considerable  distance  from  the  town.  Gradually  he  began  to 
think  of  the  loneliness  of  the  place;  of  the  dead  who  were  slum- 
bering in  their  shrouds  around  him,  and  of  the  grave  which  had 
so  recently  been  made  for  that  beautiful  being  who  had  loved  him 
with  all  the  undying  devotion  of  woman,  and  had  from  wrong  and 
69 


546  WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BAKL). 

wretchedness  perished,  a  martyr  to  the  passion  that  absorbed  her 
soul.  The  thought,  too,  that  she  had  generously  saved  his  life 
from  the  revengeful  arm  of  Mandika,  the  young  warrior,  occurred 
to  his  recollection,  and  wrung  his  soul  with  anguish.  As  he 
turned  and  gazed  around  him,  an  indefinable  fear  came  upon  him, 
and  he  shuddered,  lest  the  shade  of  the  martyred  Manitoo  should 
rise  from  the  gloom  of  the  grave,  and  upbraid  him  with  his  in- 
gratitude for  the  heroic  preservation  of  his  life,  and  with  the  in- 
consistency of  his  vow.  Suddenly  starting  with  horror,  he  ex- 
claimed— "Ha!  what  do  I  see!"  and  trembling  in  every  limb,  he 
bent  his  vision  on  a  female  figure  that  slowly  emerged  from  a  re- 
cess of  the  church.  He  would  have  screamed,  but  the  sound  of 
his  voice  died  away  upon  his  lips.  He  would  have  fled  upon  the 
wings  of  the  wind,  but  his  strength  failed,  and  he  sunk  down  in 
horror.  With  a  commanding  air,  the  figure  approached  him,  and 
as  it  passed,  he  recognized  the  features  of  the  beautiful  Indian 
princess.  His  glaring  eyes  involuntarily  followed  the  spectre,  as 
it  took  a  circuitous  course,  and  disappeared  in  the  shadowy  recess 
of  the  church  from  which  it  had  issued. 

Harry  was  no  sooner  able  to  move,  than  he  left  the  lonely  habi- 
tation of  the  dead  with  all  possible  speed.  He  arrived  at  home 
almost  breathless  with  terror,  and  pale  as  though  he  had  been  one 
of  the  sheeted  dead.  So  ghastly  was  the  expression  of  his 
countenance,  that  his  mother  and  sister  were  alarmed,  and  led 
him  to  a  couch. 

When  the  story  was  told  that  Harry  had  seen  the  spirit  of  the 
Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  it  was  generally  "believed;  and 
stout  indeed  was  the  heart  that  would  afterwards  pass  the  Swedes' 
church  at  night.  He  who  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  forced  to 
pass,  carried  some  talismanic  charm,  or  means  of  incantation. 
The  spirit  of  the  unhappy  Indian  princess  haunted  the  imagina- 
tion of  all  the  young  lovers  in  the  town  and  country,  and  children 
trembled  by  the  fireside  when  the  story  was  told. 

Poor  Harry  was  sick  for  some  time  after  the  event,  and  so  nerv- 
ous did  he  become,  that  his  sister  Julia  was  under  the  necessity 
of  removing  her  couch  into  his  room,  through  the  fear  that  the 
apparition  of  Manitoo  would  appear  in  his  chamber.  But  Harry 
recovered,  and  determined  immediately  to  leave  Wilmington,  and 
travel  where  other  scenes  would  obliterate  from  his  recollection 
those  which  he  had  recently  witnessed  at  home. 

Accordingly,  bidding  adieu  to  his  mother  and  sister,  with  many 
tears,  he  started  on  his  perilous  pilgrimage;  for  a  travel  from  one 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  547 

city  to  another,  at  a  distance  of  two  or  three  hundred  miles,  was 
a  great  undertaking,  and  greater  bustle  was  then  made  in  prepar- 
ing to  go  from  Wilmington  to  Philadelphia,  than  is  now  made  in 
the  journey  from  Baltimore  to  Boston.  The  mighty  giant  of  steam, 
like  Archimedes  of  Syracuse,  is  moving  the  world,  and  anni- 
hilating time  and  space;  while  electro-magnetism  is  transmitting 
the  thoughts  of  the  human  mind  with  the  velocity  of  light.  The 
hour  is  rapidly  approaching,  when  a  steam  flying  machine  will 
navigate  the  air,  with  all  the  buoyancy  and  beauty  of  a  bird. 
Could  the  wise  ancients  rise  from  the  tomb  of  centuries,  and  be- 
hold the  steam  engine  exerting  its  Herculean  power,  even  Solo- 
mon himself  would  be  forced  to  exclaim,  "there  is  something  new 
under  the  sun." 

Harry  arrived  in  Philadelphia,  and  soon  discovered  that  a  ship 
had  recently  arrived  from  the  East  Indies,  bringing  several  East 
Indians  with  her.  His  curiosity  was  excited  to  notice  the  simi- 
larity of  features  and  complexion  between  those  and  the  North 
American  Indians,  for  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  then  swarmed 
with  the  children  of  the  forest.  Even  since  the  recollection  of 
the  author,  they  were  to  be  seen  in  that  city  shooting  with  a  bow 
and  arrow  at  ftps,  which  were  placed  by  the  citizens  in  the  cre- 
vices of  the  pavement. 

Having  a  considerable  sum  of  money  with  him,  Harry  resolved 
from  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  to  go  a  voyage  to  the  East  Indies. 
But  the  ship  would  not  sail  under  four  weeks,  during  which  time 
he  amused  himself  in  that  then  comparatively  small  city.  The  day 
of  departure  at  length  arrived,  and  Captain  Hardy  notified  him  to 
come  on  board,  which  he  did,  after  collecting  his  sea-stores,  and 
having  made  every  preparation. 

Little  occurred  of  import,  during  the  passage  down  the  river  and 
bay ;  but  a  new  scene  of  life  opened  to  Harry,  when  the  gallant 
ship  went  bounding  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  bending 
in  beauty  to  the  breeze,  and  dashing  the  foaming  billows  aside. 
To  his  romantic  soul  it  was  a  new  world,  and  he  watched  the  sun 
as  he  rose  and  set,  scattering  his  golden  light  over  the  heavens, 
with  emotions  no  language  can  describe. 

Harry's  manner  became  abstracted  and  taciturn,  for  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  done  a  deadly  wrong  to  a  generous  heart  that  beat  only 
for  him,  and  had  by  the  force  of  circumstances  been  accessory 
to  the  death  of  one  who  had  generously  saved  his  life  from  the 
Indian  tomahawk.  But  notwithstanding  his  unhappy  countenance, 
every  one  on  board  became  warmly  attached  to  him;  particularly 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

the  two  East  Indians,  who  were  persons  of  wealth  and  distinction 
at  home.  There  was,  also,  a  handsome  Indian  lad  on  board, 
named  Quashakee,  who  also  conceived  a  particular  regard  for 
Harry,  on  account  of  similarity  of  feeling  and  disposition;  and 
often  sat  for  hours  watching  with  him  the  variegated  skies,  and 
the  distanc  siiips  that  passed  away  like  spirits  on  the  ocean  of 
eternity.  If  Harry  were  sick,  Quashakee  was  at  his  side,  ever 
ready  to  minister  to  his  wants.  So  much  sympathy  did  he  find  in 
the  bosoms  of  these  voyagers,  that  his  mind  in  a  measure  was 
relieved  from  its  gloomy  reflections,  and  he  became  comparatively 
cheerful.  But  alas!  how  often  does  one  circumstance  eventuate 
in  many  misfortunes,  arid  change  the  whole  current  of  a  man's 
life?  After  days  of  calm  sunshine,  a  dark  cloud  upon  the  horizon 
appeared,  and  the  watchful  eye  of  Captain  Hardy  discovered  that 
a  storm  was  approaching.  Orders  were  given  to  put  the  ship  in 
order  to  meet  the  crisis,  and  scarcely  were  the  sails  furled,  ere  the 
wind  arose;  the  billows  of  the  ocean  began  to  roll  and  break  in 
foam;  while  fear  gradually  depicted  its  outlines  on  the  faces  of 
the  passengers.  Louder  and  still  louder  roared  the  storm,  whilst 
the  winds  lashed  the  waves  into  fury,  and  the  laboring  ship  was 
tossed  to  and  fro,  like  an  egg-shell.  Still  more  furious  became  the 
tempest  towards  night;  the  rigging  of  the  ship  was  torn  to  tatters, 
and  scattered  on  the  bosom  of  the  mighty  deep. 

But  the  soul  of  the  heroic  Harry  remained  calm  and  unmoved, 
amid  the  mighty  war  of  the  elements.  His  romantic  eye  gazed 
with  even  delight  upon  the  terrific  grandeur  and  sublimity  of  the 
scene,  and  his  fearless  soul  surveyed  with  a  pleasure  approaching 
enthusiasm,  the  mountain  billows  as  they  rolled  by  him,  and  bursted 
amid  the  fury  of  the  roaring  blast.  Awfully  grand  to  his  vision 
was  the  dashing  deep,  when  the  darkness  of  night  came  down 
upon  it,  shrouding  every  thing  in  impenetrable  gloom,  save  when 
the  lurid  lightning  leaped  along  the  heavens,  and  illuminated  with 
a  fearful  glare  the  foaming  surface  of  the  sea.  The  crazy  ship, 
lumbering  in  the  trough  of  the  billows,  worked  with  a  quivering 
motion  in  every  joint,  and  trembled  from  stem  to  stern,  as  with  a 
fearful  foreboding  of  her  dissolution.  But  while  the  other  passen- 
gers were  groaning  with  terror,  and  even  the  hearts  of  the  hardy, 
storm-beaten  mariners  were  beginning  to  quail  with  apprehension, 
Harry,  with  his  head  leaning  upon  his  hand,  seemed  unconscious 
of  danger. 

With  still  more  tremendous  fury  raged  the  blast,  and  rolled  on 
the  roaring  billows;  when,  suddenly,  Captain  Hardy,  who  stood 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   M1LFORD    BARD  549 

on  the  quarter  deck-holding  on  with  one  hand  to  the  taffrail,  cried 
out  in  the  thunder-tones  of  the  trumpet,  "Prepare  to  meet  your 
fate — we  shall  all  be  lost!" 

The  incessant  flashes  of  lightning,  that  lit  up  the  angry  ocean 

with  one  red  flood  of  flame,  revealed  to  view  the  affrighted  East 

* 
Indians  imploring  protection  from  Allah,  and  the  form  of  Quash- 

akee  clinging  in  despair  to  Harry,  who  heard  not  his  lamentations, 
for  they  were  drowned  amid  the  roar  of  the  sea,  and  the  wild  tumult 
of  the  tempest.  The  agonizing  thoughts  of  these  unhappy  beings 
were  wandering  away  to  their  distant  homes,  and  to  the  smiling 
faces  and  green  fields  that  they  never  expected  to  see  again. 

The  helmless  ship,  quivering  to  her  centre  and  dashed  from  side 
to  side,  suddenly  struck  with  tremendous  force  against  a  reef  of 
rocks.  One  loud  crash  and  one  wild  scream  went  booming  over 
the  sea,  and  in  an  instant  all  on  board  that  ill-fated  vessel  were 
scattered  amid  the  midnight  darkness  of  the  deep;  nor,  save  by 
the  now  occasional  flashes  of  the  lightning  could  they  discern  the 
floating  fragments  of  the  wreck.  The  long-boat,  and  the  captain's 
gig  had  both  been  stove;  they  could  not  live  amid  the  terrific 
breakers. 

Harry  Dewaldsen  was  an  expert  swimmer;  but,  though  the 
terrors  of  the  tempest  had  in  some  degree  abated,  he  now  saw 
nothing  but  death  before  his  mental  vision ;  for  he  was  in  that 
most  forlorn  of  all  situations,  floating  on  the  wide  bosom  of  the 
ocean,  surrounded  by  darkness  and  storm.  For  some  time  he  was 
enabled  by  the  strength  of  his  manly  limbs  to  keep  above  the 
tumbling  billows,  but  at  length  that  strength  began  to  fail;  his 
heroic  courage  gave  way  to  despair,  and  breathing  a  prayer  to 
Heaven,  and  wafting  a  farewell  blessing  to  the  beloved  friends  at 
home,  he  prepared  to  perish  like  a  brave  man  who  fears  not 
death.  Loss  of  recollection  was  gradually  stealing  upon  his  mind ; 
confused  ideas  wandered  through  his  brain;  a  sense  of  sleepiness 
came  upon  his  senses,  and  as  he  was  sinking  into  the  watery  grave 
of  millions,  a  cry  of  anguish  broke  upon  his  dying  ear,  and  he  felt 
a  human  hand  grasp  him  by  the  hair  and  draw  him  to  a  fragment 
of  the  wreck,  which  he  seized  with  the  desperate  firmness  of  a 
drowning  man.  As  soon  as  Harry  recovered  his  scattered  senses, 
he  discovered,  by  the  voice,  that  he  had  been  saved  by  the  young 
Indian  Quashakee,  to  whom,  in  lieu  of  his  kindness  and  attention 
on  ship-board,  he  had  formed  a  warm  attachment.  They  were 
clinging  to  a  portion  of  the  stern  of  the  ship,  and  as  they  went 
drifting  over  the  wide  waters,  they  vainly  imagined  what  their 


550  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

future  fate  would  be.  They  had  been  rudely  thrown  from  the  ship 
without  food ;  without  raiment;  save  what  they  had  on,  and  without 
money ;  save  a  number  of  gold  pieces  which  Harry  had  in  his 
pocket. 

Between  midnight  and  day  the  storm  gradually  abated,  the  dark 
clouds  rolled  down  the  horizon,  and  the  majestic  moon,  like  bridal 
beauty,  walked  up  into  the  glorious  hall  of  heaven,  shedding  her 
silvery  smiles  upon  the  surface  of  the  sea,  and  illuminating  the 
white  caps  of  the  weary  billows.  Forlorn  as  was  the  situation  of 
Harry,  his  heart  bounded  at  the  scene,  and  his  soul  was  imbued 
with  a  sense  of  sublime  pleasure,  that  one  less  tinctured  with 
romance  and  the  love  of  the  grand  and  beautiful,  could  not  appre- 
ciate or  conceive  of. 

When  the  goddess  of  the  morning,  the  fair  Aurora,  unbarred 
the  gates  of  day,  and  gilded  the  eastern  heavens  with  a  golden 
glow,  not  a  fragment  of  the  wreck,  or  a  trace  of  the  unfortunate 
passengers  and  crew,  could  be  discovered  on  the  lonely  waste  of 
waters.  Not  a  white  sail  in  the  distance  gladdened  the  sight  of 
these  two  desolate  wanderers  on  the  great  deep.  All,  all  had 
perished  but  themselves,  and  as  Harry  thought  of  their  distant 
friends,  he  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into  tears. 

All  day,  as  they  rolled  upon  the  billows  of  the  boundless  ocean, 
the  eye  of  Harry  was  strained  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  white 
sail  in  the  distance,  and  every  hour  seemed  an  age  of  anxiety  and 
solicitude.  They  had  not  a  mouthful  of  any  thing  to  eat,  and  the 
poor  Indian  lad  Quashakee  was  famishing  for  water. 

"It  is  hard,"  said  Harry,  as  he  looked  on  the  suffering  lad,  in 
whose  dark  eye  a  tear  glistened — "  it  is  truly  hard  that  we  have  es- 
caped the  savage  fury  of  the  tempest  to  perish  with  hunger  and 
thirst  on  the  lonely  sea,  with  no  kind  hand  to  relieve  our  wants 
and  mitigate  our  sufferings !  I  fear  not  death  when  it  comes  with 
no  lingering  tortures;  but  oh!  how  wretched  I  am  when  I  think  of 
the  happy  home  I  have  left,  and  of  that  fond  mother  and  sister 
who  are  now  happy,  altogether  unconscious  of  the  forlorn  condi- 
tion of  their  unfortunate  son  and  brother." 

The  descending  sun  gradually  sunk  into  his  ocean  bed,  and  the 
silvery  stars  were  hung  out  like  lamps  in  the  great  hall  of  heaven; 
but  still  no  distant  sail  gladdened  the  sight  of  these  poor  wander- 
ers of  the  sea.  Through  the  long  and  lonely  hours  of  the  night 
they  still  clung  to  the  fragment  of  the  wreck,  agonizing  with  hun- 
ger and  thirst,  and  fearful  of  falling  asleep,  lest  they  should  lose 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  551 

their  hold  or  be  devoured  in  the  voracious  jaws  of  some  mighty 
monster  of  the  deep. 

The  tedious  night  at  last  wore  away,  and  the  long  wished  for 
light  of  day  came  only  to  remind  them  that  their  hours  of  anguish 
were  not  yet  ended.  How  snail-like  is  the  march  of  time  when, 
from  sickness,  sorrow  or  suspense,  we  count  its  weary  moments 
as  they  pass  ?  How  unlike  its  rapid  flight  when  joy  lights  up  the 
careless  heart,  and  the  bright  and  beautiful  visions  of  bliss  illume 
the  soul  ? 

Another  day  was  hastening  to  its  termination,  and  the  shadows 
of  despair  were  beginning  to  darken  the  brow  of  Harry,  when  his 
keen  eye  caught  the  glimpse  of  a  vessel  in  the  dim  distance.  Hope, 
the  last  tenant  of  Pandora's  box,  revived  in  his  heart;  and  as  that 
ship  came  nearer  and  nearer,  bending  to  the  breeze  and  beautifully 
bounding  like  a  bird  over  the  billows  of  the  Atlantic,  he  tore  the 
sleeve  from  his  shirt,  and  tying  it  with  a  handkerchief  to  a  long 
strip  of  the  wreck,  he  hoisted  it  as  a  signal  of  distress.  Nearer,  still 
nearer  came  the  hope  of  rescue,  as  if  the  signal  had  been  seen  by 
those  on  board  and  they  were  bearing  down  on  them.  Alas! 
those  fond  hopes  of  recognition  were  illusive,  for  the  ship  almost 
within  hailing  distance  now  bore  up  in  the  wind,  and  passed  by  them 
in  her  rapid  flight,  as  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun  illuminated 
her  flowing  canvas.  Oh!  how  severe  to  the  sanguine  soul,  in  the 
hour  of  anxious  anticipation,  is  hope  deferred  ?  Night  was  again 
closing  around  them,  and  the  poor  Indian  lad  had  become  sick  from 
fatigue,  exhaustion,  and  privation.  Harry  now  lost  all  recollection 
of  his  own,  in  his  sympathy  for  Quashakee's  situation,  and  taking 
the  handkerchief  which  he  had  used  in  making  the  signal,  he 
lashed  his  drooping  companion  securely  to  the  wreck,  lest  in  an 
unguarded  moment  he  should  be  washed  away,  and  leave  him  alone 
to  die  of  starvation.  He  verified  the  proverb,  that  "  misery  loves 
company, "and  though  miserable  as  he  was  with  the  lad  at  his  side, 
and  despairing  of  ever  reaching  land,  he  forcibly  felt  that  he  would 
be  infinitely  more  miserable,  if  fate  should  snatch  from  him  the 
companion  of  his  hopes  and  fears. 

Drearily,  tediously  passed  away  the  night,  and  when  the  moon 
sunk  behind  a  dark  cloud  in  the  western  horizon,  leaving  the  wide 
sea  wrapped  in  tenfold  darkness,  hope  entirely  deserted  the  heart 
of  Harry,  and  he  half  resolved  in  his  mind  that  sudden  death 
would  be  preferable  to  the  slow,  lingering  tortures  of  suspense  he 
was  enduring.  He  had  almost  determined  to  open  the  jugular 
vein  and  carotid  artery,  with  the  knife  in  his  pocket,  and  mingle 


552  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

his  life-blood  with  the  waters,  through  the  horrid  fear  that  in  the 
pinching  pangs  of  hunger,  one  might  live  to  feed  upon  the  flesh 
of  the  other.  His  mind  was  busy  with  the  thoughts  of  suicide 
when  the  day  dawned,  and  to  his  inexpressible  joy  he  found  that 
he  was  floating  almost  under  the  very  bow  of  a  large  brig  bound  to 
the  West  Indies. 

But  in  the  excessive  joy  of  his  heart  he  had  not  noticed,  though 
talking  to  him,  that  Quashakee's  eyes  were  closed,  and  that  he 
was  from  exhaustion  and  hunger  gradually  sinking  into  the  sleep 
of  death.  Harry  now  cried  aloud  for  succor,  when  a  seaman  from 
the  round-top  espied  them,  and  came  down  to  their  assistance; 
calling  up  the  slumbering  crew,  a  rope  was  thrown  to  Harry,  which 
he  made  fast  around  the  waist  of  Quashakee,  and  he  was  hoisted 
on  board  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  In  a  few  minutes  he  stood 
himself  upon  the  deck,  and  his  quivering  lips  breathed  thanks  to 
Heaven  for  his  miraculous  preservation. 

The  kind-hearted  captain  on  seeing  the  state  in  which  the  In- 
dian lad  lay,  ordered  that  he  should  be  conveyed  to  the  cabin, 
where  every  means  were  used  for  his  resuscitation.  Towards  the 
middle  of  the  day  he  revived,  and  in  the  evening  had  so  far  recov- 
.ered  the  use  of  his  faculties  as  to  converse.  The  first  words  he 
uttered  were  to  inquire  where  the  companion  of  his  dangers  and 
sufferings  was,  nor  would  he  be- consoled  until  Harry  stood  before 
him,  and  the  poor  boy  grasped  his  hand  to  be  certain  that  he  was 
there.  He  gazed  long  and  tenderly  at  him,  and  while  his  musing 
mind  seemed  to  be  wandering  back  on  the  perils  of  the  past,  he 
covered  his  face  and  burst  into  tears. 

The  brig  which  had  so  opportunely  rescued  them  from  a  watery 
grave,  was  bound,  as  observed  before,  to  the  West  Indies,  where 
she  arrived  after  a  pleasant  voyage.  Fortunately  Harry  discovered 
at  Havana  that  a  ship  would  soon  sail  for  New  York,  and  accord- 
ingly took  passage  with  the  determination  to  return  home  and 
settle  himself  for  life. 

At  Havana,  Harry  became  acquainted  with  a  Spaniard  named 
Manual  Lopez  Alvarez  Diego,  who  was  ready  to  sail  for  New  York 
on  board  the  same  ship.  They  became  very  intimately  acquainted, 
and  Harry  discovered  that  Diego  had  a  considerable  sum  of  money 
in  doubloons,  which  was  fastened  around  his  waist  in  a  belt,  Harry 
related  to  him  his  own,  and  Quashakee's  misfortunes;  and  so 
much  were  the  feelings  of  the  Spaniard  wrought  upon,  that  he  as- 
sured them  that  they  should  not  suffer  as  long  as  he  had  gold  in  his 
possession.  His  regard  for  the  handsome  young  Indian  lad  was, 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  553 

also,  warmly  expressed,  and  Quashakee  returned  many  an  ac- 
knowledgment from  his  very  dark  expressive  eyes.  The  gener- 
ous Spaniard  bestowed  upon  them  a  number  of  costly  presents, 
and  evinced  in  all  his  conduct  so  noble  a  soul,  that  Harry  could 
not  do  otherwise  than  become  deeply  attached  to  him. 

There  was  another  Spaniard  on  board,  whose  aspect  was  not  so 
winning;  yet  he  joined  the  party  and  endeavored  to  make  himself 
agreeable.  Still  there  was  a  roughness  and  uncouth  manner 
about  him  that  precluded  the  possibility  of  his  becoming  an  inti- 
mate companion.  His  name  was  Jose  Figaro  Rosalva,  but  his 
history  was  unknown,  save  that  he  had  long  been  a  wanderer  of 
the  sea. 

Such  were  the  passengers  of  the  good  ship  Pelanquin,  Captain 
Davis,  from,  and  for,  New  York.  The  passage  was  interspersed 
with  alternate  sunshine  and  storm,  but  after  a  long  passage  they 
all  arrived  safely  in  New  York,  once  called  by  the  Dutch  New  Am- 
sterdam. Harry  had  amused  himself  on  board  in  various  ways, 
such  as  carving  his  name  on  the  handle  of  the  splendid  Spanish 
knife,  which  Diego  had  given  him ;  sculpturing  figures  in  wood, 
and  relating  to  Quashakee  at  night  the  story  of  his  ill-fated  love 
for  Manitoo,  the  beauty  of  the  Brandywine ;  how  his  ingratitude 
and  cruelty  in  forsaking  her  had  caused  her  to  drown  herself  in 
despair,  and  how  remorse  and  the  keenest  misery  had  ever  since 
preyed  upon  his  heart.  And  while  he  assured  Quashakee  that  he 
felt  for  her  an  undying  affection,  and  would  sacrifice  every  thing  if 
he  could  but  restore  her  to  life,  and  once  more  behold  her  heaven- 
ly form ;  the  poor  boy,  touched  at  his  heart-felt  sorrow ;  would  lean 
his  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  mingle  his  tears  with  those  of  Harry 
as  they  fell. 

When  the  passengers  landed  on  the  wharf  at  New  York,  they 
agreed  not  to  separate;  but  all  repair  to  the  same  public-house,  to 
which  they  were  conducted  by  Diego,  who  was  acquainted  in  that 
city,  and  particularly  with  the  landlord.  Here  Deigo,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  Mynheer  Von  Dunderford,  the  landlord,  bade  Harry  and 
the  lad,  Quashakee,  make  themselves  easy;  assuring  them  that  so 
long  as  he  possessed  a  doubloon  they  should  not  suffer,  and  related 
to  Von  Dunderford  the  story  of  their  shipwreck,  sufferings,  and 
loss  of  property. 

At  night  Diego  requested  that  they  might  all  three  be  placed  in 

one  room;  but  as  this  was  impossible,  Harry  and  Quashakee  were 

to  sleep  in  a  room  next  to  that  occupied  by  Diego.     Fatigued 

with  the  voyage  they  all  repaired  to  bed  early,  and  Harry  long 

70 


554  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

tossed  from  side  to  side,  as  if  disagreeable  thoughts  were  preying 
upon  his  mind.  So  uneasy  was  he,  that  Quashakee  arose  from 
his  bed  to  inquire  if  he  were  sick,  and  needed  assistance;  but 
being  answered  in  the  negative,  he  returned  to  his  couch  and  soon 
fell  into  a  profound  slumber,  from  which  he  did  not  awake  until 
the  next  morning. 

Harry  arose  at  sunrise  with  a  dispirited  air  and  gloomy  counte- 
nance, declaring  that  he  had  not  slept  three  hours,  and  that  horri- 
ble dreams  had  haunted  his  slumbers.  Diego  was  a  very  early 
riser,  and  the  landlord  rinding  he  had  not  risen  in  time  for  break- 
fast, repaired  to  his  room  to  ascertain  what  was  the  matter.  Great 
was  his  horror  when  he  found  him  lying  on  his  back  deluged  with 
blood,  and  cold  in  death.  Von  Dunderford  was  a  shrewd,  intelli- 
gent Dutchman,  and  without  giving  any  alarm  he  repaired  to  the 
police-office,  and  related  what  had  taken  place.  Several  officers 
followed  him  to  the  house,  and  discovered  that  Diego  had  been 
stabbed  to  the  heart,  and  that  he  had  received  a  heavy  blow  on  the 
side  of  his  head,  proving  that  he  had  not  committed  suicide.  On 
examining  the  room  a  large  Spanish  knife  was  found  partly  under 
the  bed,  as  if  it  had  been  accidentally  dropped  in  the  dark;  and  on 
the  handle  was  carved  the  name  of  Harry  Dewaldsen,  in  beauti- 
fully formed  letters. 

Harry,  at  this  moment,  was  sitting  in  a  melancholy  mood  in  the 
bar-room  below,  resting  his  head  upon  one  hand,  and  looking  into 
the  face  of  Quashakee.  When  the  officers  came  down,  and  Von 
Dunderford  pointed  to  Harry  as  the  man  whose  name  was  on  the 
knife,  he  arose  with  a  calm  countenance ;  but  when  one  of  th~ 
officers  placed  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  told  him  he  was 
his  prisoner  as  the  murderer  of  Diego,  his  face  became  pale  and 
bloodless;  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  staggered  against  the  wall. 
The  quick  ear  of  the  Indian  lad  had  caught  the  words  of  dreadful 
import;  he  leaped  from  his  chair  with  a  scream,  and  fell  upon  the 
floor  in  a  state  of  insensibility. 

The  great  agitation  of  Harry,  when  charged  with  the  murder 
satisfied  the  officers  that  he  was  guilty ;  and  though,  as  soon  as 
he  recovered  self-possession,  he  protested  his  innocence  in  heart- 
wrung,  earnest  language,  yet  the  officer  turned  a  deaf  ear,  and 
proceeded  to  search  his  person  for  the  gold,  which  Von  Dunder- 
ford, the  landlord,  knew  Diego  had  on  the  evening  previous.  Gold 
pieces  were  found  in  Harry's  pockets ;  a  beautiful  little  casket 
containing  several  jewels,  on  the  lid  of  which  the  name  of  Diego, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  555 

the  murdered  man,  was  engraved ;  and  several  other  valuable  arti- 
cles which  were  known  to  have  belonged  to  the  same  person. 

The  next  step  was  to  convey  Harry  to  a  dark  and  dismal  dun- 
geon. So  affected  was  his  mind  by  the  awful  charge  of  imbruing 
his  hands  in  the  blood  of  man,  that  he  could  not  attempt  to  refute 
the  allegation.  When  he  sat  down  in  his  prison,  and  began  to 
reflect  upon  the  horrible  situation  in  which  he  was  placed,  he  was 
wretched  in  the  extreme.  He  philosophized  upon  the  force  of 
circumstances,  and  as  the  clank  of  his  chains  rung  upon  his  ears, 
his  mind  wandered  back  to  happier  days,  and  the  dear  images  of 
his  mother  and  sister  rose  before  his  mental  vision ;  and  though 
not  accustomed  to  the  melting  mood,  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes, 
and  he  felt  that  he  was  unmanned. 

Quashakee,  the  poor  Indian  lad,  whose  heart,  though  placed  in 
the  bosom  of  a  savage,  knew  how  to  feel;  and  so  great  was  the 
influence  of  the  tidings  that  the  life  of  his  friend  was  jeopardized, 
that  he  was  prostrated  on  a  bed  of  sickness.  In  the  room  where 
he  was  confined,  was  also  confined  the  Spaniard,  Rosalva,  who 
had  been  suddenly  struck  down  with  the  paralytic  attack,  com- 
pletely prostrating  his  nervous  system. 

The  excitement  of  the  public  mind  became  very  great  during 
the  trial  of  Harry.  Every  person  seemed  to  be  astonished  at  his 
cool  and  collected  manner,  for  he  appeared  to  be  more  uncon- 
cerned with  the  issue  of  the  matter,  than  many  of  those  who  stood 
within  the  pale  of  the  court.  Harry  perceived  from  the  first  that 
there  was  but  little  hope  for  him,  as  a  strong  chain  of  circum- 
stances were  against  him ;  and  the  attorney  against  him  contended 
that  a  strong  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  more  powerful 
in  a  court  of  justice,  than  the  oath  of  a  single  individual. 

The  bloody  knife,  with  the  name  of  Harry  Dewaldsen  on  the 
handle  was  arrayed  against  him,  as  also  the  casket  in  his  posses- 
sion, with  the  name  of  Diego  engraved  upon  it.  Circumstances 
were  strongly  against  him,  and  there  was  but  little  hope  of  his 
escape. 

The  morning  of  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  be  tried,  he  was 
sitting  in  a  melancholy  mood,  when  the  massive  iron  door  swung 
back  upon  its  hinges,  and  the  wild  scream  of  a  lady  broke  upon 
his  startled  ear. 

"My  brother!  my  darling  brother!  you  cannot  be,  you  are  not, 
a  murderer!"  exclaimed  Julia,  the  devoted  sister  of  Harry,  who 
had  heard  of  his  misfortuiae,  and  left  her  mother  in  Wilmington 


556  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

to  see  him  she  so  dearly  loved.  She  ran  to  him  the  moment  she 
entered  his  gloomy  prison-house,  fell  upon  his  bosom  and  fainted. 

While  he  stood  leaning  against  the  wall,  and  gazing  on  his 
prostrate  sister,  a  cry  was  heard  in  the  passage,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment Manitoo,  the  Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine  rushed  into 
Harry's  arms,  exclaiming  that  he  was  an  innocent  and  injured 
man.  She  who  had  assumed  the  character  of  an  Indian  lad  that 
she  might  follow  his  fortunes,  had  now  resumed  the  female  garb, 
and  had  come  to  save  his  life  once  more. 

Jose  Figaro  Rosalva,  the  Spaniard,  who  had  been  struck  down 
by  a  paralytic  attack  and  saw  the  near  approach  of  death,  had 
made  confession  that  he  had  committed  the  deed ;  that  he  had 
taken  the  knife  from  Harry's  pocket,  during  the  night,  and  had 
left  it  where  it  was  found,  that  suspicion  might  not  rest  on  him. 

His  confession  had  been  written  down,  and  was  now  presented 
to  the  proper  authorities,  who  gave  orders  for  the  release  of  Harry. 
His  mind  was  completely  bewildered  by  the  strange  events  which 
had  recently  transpired. 

Great  was  the  joy  of  Julia  Dewaldsen,  when  her  brother  stood 
before  her  freed  from  his  perilous  situation.  And  how  different 
her  feelings  with  regard  to  Manitoo,  who  had  overheard  the  rav- 
ings of  Rosalva,  and  had  induced  him,  in  the  near  approach  of 
death,  to  confess,  and  thus  free  an  innocent  man  from  his  dreadful 
situation.  No  sooner  was  Julia  informed  of  the  fact  that  Manitoo 
had  indeed  saved  the  life  of  her  brother,  than  she  embraced  her  in 
a  transport  of  tenderness,  declaring  that  they  never  would  be 
separated  during  life. 

When  they  arrived  in  Philadelphia,  Harry  begged  the  hand  of 
Manitoo  in  marriage,  which  she  pledged;  but  Julia  desired  that 
the  rites  might  not  be  performed  until  they  arrived  at  home,  that 
his  mother  might  be  a  witness  to  the  ceremony.  On  arriving, 
Harry  found  that  his  mother,  from  distress  of  mind,  had  been  con- 
fined to  her  bed;  but  when  she  was  informed  of  all  that  had  tran- 
spired, her  joy  was  excessive,  and  she  welcomed  Manitoo  with  all 
the  warmth  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  soon  made  for  the  celebration  of  the  nuptials, 
and  the  chief,  Undine,  was  invited  to  be  present  on  the  occasion. 
He  rejoiced  at  once  more  beholding  Manitoo,  for  she  had  left  him 
to  follow  Harry,  without  having  communicated  her  intention.  On 
the  night  that  she  threw  herself  into  the  Brandywine,  she  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  moment  when  Harry  turned  from  the  sight, 
and  secreted  herself  among  the  bushes  on  the  margin  of  the  stream. 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD.  557 

When  the  marriage  ceremony  had  been  performed,  Harry 
thought  of  the  fortune-teller,  Kate,  and  declared  that  no  part  of 
her  prophecy  had  been  fulfilled.  Mandika,  the  unsuccessful  lover 
of  Manitoo,  on  hearing  of  her  union  with  Harry,  disappeared, 
and  never  was  seen  afterward. 

From  the  union  of  these  two  celebrated  characters,  sprang  a 
numerous  family.  Their  descendants  resided  in  and  about  Wil- 
mington, until  the  tide  of  emigration  began  to  set  strongly  to  the 
West,  when  they  retired  to  Ohio,  from  which  State  two  became 
distinguished  members  of  Congress.  The  relics  of  Wild  Harry 
of  Wilmington  and  the  Indian  Beauty  of  the  Brandywine,  now 
lie  mouldering  in  one  of  the  grave-yards  of  that  city,  after  having 
lived  long  and  happily  together. 


Departure  of  la 


HE  is  dashed  on  the  foam  of  the  turbulent  ocean, 
Where  the  dark  swelling  tempest  in   revelry  raves; 

But  the  Brandywine  moves  with  a  beautiful  motion, 
And  bears  her  loved  guest  o'er  the  billowy  waves. 

The  sea-god  has  promised  to  guard  his  soft  pillow, 
When  the  lightning  of  heaven  illumines  the  deep, 

And  to  calm,  in  its  rage,  the  wild  dash  of  the  billow, 
When  softly  he  sinks  in  the  slumbers  of  sleep. 

And  the  God  of  the  skies,  now  enthroned  in  his  power, 
Who  has  guided  his  steps  'mid  the  thunders  of  war; 

Who  has  screened  him  from  danger  in  battle's  dark  hour, 
And  written  his  name  on  eternity's  car: 

To  the  land  of  his  sires,  to  his  own  native  nation, 
Shall  the  hero  of  fame,  in  his  splendor  restore, 

And  the  plaudits  of  millions,  fair  freedom's  oblation, 
Shall  re-thunder  the  caves  of  old  Gallia's  shore. 

He  has  gone  to  repose  in  the  lap  of  his  mother,* 
To  the  home  of  his  youth,  and  the  land  of  his  bloom; 

He  has  dropped  at  Mount  Vernon  a  tear  o'er  his  brother, 
Who  is  pillowed  in  death,  in  the  night  of  the  tomb. 

*  France. 


558  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

He  is  gone  to  his  country,  and  never,  all!  never, 
Shall  America's  Eagle  o'ershadow  the  brave; 

He  hath  left  us  in  hope,  but  departed  for  ever, 
For  age  must  consign  him  to  nature's  cold  grave. 

No  more  shall  his  path  be  enamelled  with  flowers, 
Or  the  damsels  of  beauty  sing  praise  to  his  name; 

But  the  muse  shall  exalt  it  in  nature's  gay  bowers, 
And  gild  it  with  gold  in  the  temple  of  fame. 


AH!  why  my  friend,  why  thus  distressed, 
And  whence  the  blanch  of  woe? 

The  bursting  pang  now  heaves  thy  breast, 
And  tears  unnumbered  flow! 

Thine  eye  is  dim,  soft  peace  has  fled 

On  wings  of  withering  care; 
Alas !  thy  pleasures  all  are  dead, 

In  love  once  blooming  fair. 

The  night  of  gloom  distracts  thy  brain, 
Hope,  shuddering,  leaves  thine  eye; 

But  ah !   they  will  return  again , 
Bid  joy  relieve  the  sigh. 

Say,  has  ingratitude's  dark  stamp, 

Detracted  from  thy  worth; 
Or  has  gone  out  religion's  lamp, 

Upon  this  envious  earth? 

Has  friendship  ceased  in  sweet  return, 

The  proffered  gifts  of  praise; 
Ah!   does  thy  generous  bosom  burn, 

For  joys  of  other  days? 

0  tell  me  if  thy  heart  doth  bleed, 

For  some  fair  cruel  maid; 
Who  in  return  thy  love  hath  freed, 

And  cold  unkindness  paid? 

Or  hast  thou,  hopeless,  now  inurned, 
A  partner  in  life's  vale; 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  559 

Who  love  for  love  had  long  returned, 
And  cheered  with  virtue's  tale? 

Ah  no !   he  cried,  my  poignant  grief, 

Is  greater  far  than  this; 
My  life  is  sad — the  tale  is  brief, 

That  robbed  me  of  my  bliss! 

My  wife  was  taken  yesternight, 

With  raging  pain  and  fever; 
Her  eye  had  lost  its  lustre  bright, 

And  nothing  could  relieve  her. 

But  sad,  ah!   sad,  for  me  to  say, 

The  Doctor  gave  a  pill; 
And,  0  alas !   she  rose  to-day, 

To  grieve  my  bosom  still. 

Hope  told  me  that  she  would  have  sung, 

Poor  soul  in  other  skies; 
But  while  I  smiled,  I  heard  her  tongue, 

"The  worm  that  never  dies." 


/ragttuni 


THE  night  was  dark  — 
No  moon  illumined  the  tempestuous  deep, 
Nor  bright  stars  twinkled  o'er  the  vast  abyss  — 
The  fathomless  abyss  of  ocean's  waves. 
The  winds  arose,  the  billowy  tempest  raged; 
High  heaving  to  the  clouds  the  sparkling  foam, 
And  the  loud  surge  lashed  heavily  the  shore, 
Dashing  with  giant  strength  the  little  bark, 
First  up,  then  down,  while  on  the  slippery  deck, 
The  sea-boy  raised  his  humble  prayer  to  heaven, 
And  sent  his  scream,  wild,  echoing,  on  the  blast. 
Still  louder  roared  the  storm,  the  thunder  shook 
The  battlements  of  heaven,  while  the  forked  lightning, 
Gleaming  o'er  the  scene,  shed  dismal  horror. 
Scarce  did  the  flash  expire,  when  peals  on  peals, 
Still  louder  broke  on  the  astonished  ear, 
As  tho'  the  planets  were  convulsed,  and  worlds 
Flying,  affrighted,  from  their  native  fields, 
Were  tumbling  into  ruins.     Incessant  now 


560  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

The  bending  arch  of  heaven's  stupendous  fabric, 

Curtained  with  planets,  in  their  orbits  fixed, 

Appeared  one  solid,  blazing  orb  of  fire. 

Fast  clinging  to  the  reeling  mast  alone, 

Frantic  and  wild  with  horror  and  alarm, 

Now  calling  on  her  God,  and  now  resigned 

To  sink  ingulphed  beneath  the  watery  waste, 

The  beauteous  Ellen   stood.     Fast  flowed  her  tears, 

When  memory  would  recall  the  pleasing  hopes 

Of  soon  arriving  home  to  greet  her  friends, 

Which  she  so  oft  in  fancy  had  indulged. 

High  on  a  cliff  that  overlooked  the  sea, 

A  rugged  rock,  defying  winds  and  storms, 

The  splendid  castle  of  Alcanzor  stood — 

The  home  of  Ellen.     On  the  pebbly  beach  • 

Alcanzor  strayed;  and  grieved,  and  listened  long, 

While  every  billow  brought  distracted  sighs; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  the  lightning's  flash 

Portrayed  the  vessel,  struggling  with  the  waves; 

And  with  his  glass  each  moment  he  beheld 

The  frantic  Ellen.*  But  blest  hope  had  fled, 

And  pity  now  alone  remained  to  soothe 

The  hapless  sorrows  of  a  lover's  breast, 

Whose  anguished  cries  were  drowned  amid  the  roar 

Of  the  wild  billow,  and  the  bellowing  winds — 

Whose  weeping  eyes  should  never  more  behold 

The  darling  object,  the  intended  bride, 

More  dear  than  worlds,  than  even  life  itself. 

The  storm  increased !    Tempestuous  roared  the  winds, 

And  wilder  still  did  rage  the  boiling  gulf, 

While  every  wave  dashed  rudely  o'er  the  bark, 

And  lost  themselves  deep  in  the  liquid  gloom: 

Thunder  o'er  thunder  rolling,  died  away, 

But  quickly  followed  by  severer  crash, 

Till  from  the  clouds  a  darting  bolt  emerged, 

And  swept  the  mast  far  on  the  bubbling  spray. 

The  next  rude  surge,  in  its  broad  cradle,  took 

The  weeping  Ellen;  and  the  bark  went  down — 

To  rise  no  more.     The  midnight  hour  had  passed; 

The  gloomy  clouds  rolled  heavily  away, 

And  in  the  east  pale  Luna  hung  her  horns, 

Shedding  her  beams  upon  the  silent  scene 

Where  Ellen's  beauty  found  a  watery  grave, — 

Where  Ellen  slept  unconscious  of  her  doom. 

Silence,  eternal  silence,  now  did  reign, 

Save  when  the  bubble  bursted  on  the  shore, 

Seeming  as  tho'  great  nature  made  a  pause, 

And  pity  melted  in  a  flood  of  tears. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD.  561 


SOON  will  the  lovely  Spring  unfold 

Her  blossoms  to  the  breeze; 
And  give  with  fruits  of  green  and  gold 

Temptation  to  the  trees. 
Young  April  with  her  silver  showers, 

And  tender  tears  of  dew; 
And  beauteous  May  thro'  blooming  bowers, 

Their  charms  again  shall  shew. 

c  .     . 

Delightful  Spring  ere  long  shall  spread 

The  vale  with  varying  green, 
The  strawberry  and  the  cherry  red, 

In  every  grove  be  seen. 
The  garden  gay  and  fertile  field 

Shall  gild  the  earth  again ; 
This  brings  its  flowers,  and  that  shall  yield 

The  golden  glittering  grain. 

I  love  to  see  the  blooming  bud 

A  rich  red  rose  undo; 
The  apple  blushing  as  with  blood, 

The  plum  with  veins  of  blue. 
To  see  the  long  prolific  vine 

Its  precious  product  mould; 
And  in  the  Summer's  sunbeam  shine 

Large  grapes  of  glossy  gold. 

Fair  Summer  with  industrious  care 

Shall  soon  with  sweets  abound; 
The  melon  and  the  mealy  pear,. 

Lie  scattered  o'er  the  ground. 
Profusive  Autumn  then  shall  come, 

With  glittering  sheaf  and  grain; 
The  season  of  the  gathering  home, 

Of  gladness  and  of  gain. 

Thus  doth  the  Spring  of  life  come  on, 

Its  blooming  flowers  are  fair; 
Summer  succeeds  when  Spring  is  gone, 

With  toil,  and  fruit  and  care. 
Then  Autumn,  harvest  of  the  heart, 

The  hoarding  time  of  strife, 
Of  miserly  desire  and  art; 
Winter  arrives  and  death's  keen  dart 

Divides  the  thread  of  life. 

71 


562  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


A  SKETCH   FROM   LIFE. 

THE  fair  Aurora  had  undone 

Her  glittering  gates  of  gold, 
The  brilliant  chariot  of  the  sun, 

Just  o'er  the  hills  had  rolled: 
When  Laura,  lovely  maid,  arose, 

Unbarred  the  cottage  door, 
To  seek,  to  soothe,  and  pity  those, 

Misfortune  had  made  poor. 

Like  some  kind  angel  swift  she  flew, 

Rejoicing  on  her  way, 
Unto  the  lowly  cot  in  view, 

Where  few  will  ever  stray: 
And  there,  0  sight  of  woe,  she  saw 

A  soldier  sick;  he  was 
Stretched  out  upon  a  bed  of  straw, 

Who  bled  in  freedom's  cause. 

His  eye,  that  once  with  fire  had  flashed, 

Was  dim  with  woe  and  age, 
His  breast,  that  once  in  strife  was  gashed, 

Now  throbbed  with  fever's  rage; 
His  arm,  that  waved  the  weapon  bright, 

Was  paralyzed  with  pain, 
And  Laura  wept  to  see  the  sight, 

And  bathed  his  burning  brain. 

And  while  she  smoothed  the  humble  bed, 

On  which  the  hero  lay, 
She  held  a  cordial  to  his  head, 

And  charmed  his  griefs  away; 
And  by  her  kind  assiduous  aid, 

His  health  and  hope  restored; 
He  lived  to  bless  the  generous  maid, 

He  blest  her  and  adored. 

0  such  is  lovely  woman's  heart, 

Where  human  woes  abound, 
She  draws  from  sorrow's  breast  the  dart, 

And  heals  the  anguished  wound; 
Where'er  she  moves  her  path  is  strown 

With  sweet  affection's  flowers; 
The  man  is  dead  who  will  not  own 

Fond  woman's  magic  powers. 


WRITINGS    OP    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


How  like  the  silkworm  is  the  range 

Of  man's  own  being  thro'  each  change 

To  age  from  helpless  infancy! 

From  death  to  dread  eternity! 

First  from  the  blue  and  tiny  germ, 

Comes  forth  the  ground-work  of  a  worm, 

Demanding  food — one  kind  alone; 

Time  passes — see  how  it  is  grown. 

Then  comes  a  change — its  germhood  gone, 

It  now  a  chubby  form  puts  on; 

And  grows  with  such  a  rapid  pace, 

Its  change  in  size  we  scarce  may  trace. 

Then  comes  another  change,  the  germ 

Is  now  lost  in  the  half-grown  worm; 

Then  comes  the  third  change,  then  the  last; 

'Tis  now  of  age  and  boyhood  past. 

Seest  thou  no  good  resemblance  here? 

Tis  work-time  now  or  wild  career; 

It  now  begins  with  wisdom  sage, 

Or  to  prepare  for  coming  age, 

Or  squander  time  and  idly  range, 

Unmindful  of  the  eternal  change, 

When  time  recedes  with  parting  breath, 

And  life  is  swallowed  up  in  death. 

See  how  his  thread  of  life  he  spins ! 

With  what  precision'  he  begins  ! 

And  with  what  art  his  silken  cell, 

It  weaves  wherein  it  soon  must  dwell ! 

So  the  good  man,  his  soul  to  save, 

Prepares  himself  a  quiet  grave. 

Its  life  of  labor  now  is  passed, 

We  see  it  in  its  tomb  at  last, 

Awaiting  that  most  awful  day 

Of  resurrection  from  decay; 

The  hour  arrives — behold  how  strange 

It  witnesseth  the  final  change ! 

It  bursts  the  tomb,  and  from  the  dead 

Waves  its  proud  wings  and  lifts  its  head 

With  joy,  and  dances  without  fear 

Upon  its  silken  sepulchre; 

No  food  requires  it  to  abate 

Its  hunger  in  its  happier  state; 

No  labor  now,  but  all  is  joy, 

It  shouts  and  seeks  no  other  employs 

So  when  life's  fitful  fever's  o'er, 

Man  falls  to  rise  upon  that  shore 


564  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Where  life  is  peace,  and  praise  employ, 
And  heaven  one  constant  round  of  joy: 
Like  the  poor  worm  his  toils  are  done, 
And  years  of  lasting  love  begun. 


a 

WHO  REJECTED  JTY  OFFERING  OF  FLOWERS. 

To  ^April's  showers, 

May  owes  her  flowers, 
Or  barren  every  bower  appears; 

Yet  gaudy  May, 

In  rich   array, 
Doth  smile  at  April's  tender  tears. 

Tho'  April  strews, 

With  richest  hues, 
The  path  of  May,  in  beauteous  bloom; 

Yet  May  in  pride, 

Doth  her  deride, 
And  dance  in  triumph  on  her  tomb. 

Thus,  lady  fair, 

The  tears  of  care, 
Which  I  have  often  shed  for  thee, 

Thou  dost  reject, 

With  cold  neglect, 
And  smile  to  mark  my  misery. 

The  blooming  flowers, 

I  brought  from  bowers, 
To  deck  thy  lucid  locks  of  gold, 

Thou  didst  refuse, 

And  deadly  dews 
Fell  on  the  beauteous  blossoms  cold. 

Lady,  the  doom 

Of  flowers  in  bloom, 
Too  well  do  mark  my  bloom  of  years; 

For  tho'  the  sun, 

Of  love  begun, 
Maytrise  in  blies,  it  sets  in  tears. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  565 


111  10 


OH!  I  have  seen  a  bubble  blown 

In  beauty  on  a  billow  bright  ! 
Around  it  lovely  landscapes  shone, 

And  pictured  forms  of  life  and  light. 
An  earth  as  heaven  was  painted  there, 

The  field,  the  forest,  and  the  lawn; 
But  as  I  grasped,  it  burst  in  frir, 

The  mimic  world  of  light  was  gone. 

And  such  is  pleasure  —  we  pursue, 

As  does  the  child  the  butterfly; 
Tis  charming  to  the  distant  view, 

But  as  we  grasp,  its  glories  die. 
Tis  crushed  the  moment  that  we  catch 

The  gaudy  phantom  of  the  mind, 
And  disappointed  man,  a  wretch, 

An  aching  void  can  only  find. 

Oh  !  I  have  sought  frail  pleasure  long, 

In  empty  fame  and  glittering  gold; 
I've  listened  to  her  Syren  song, 

As  did  Ulysses'  ears  of  old. 
Aye,  for  one  glimpse  of  glory,  I 

Have  oft  my  heart's  best  wishes  given; 
Yea,  for  one  glance  from  her  dark  eye, 

Would  barter  e'en  my  hopes  of  heaven. 

I've  sought  the  phantom  pleasure  too 

In  the  heart's  hell,  the  mad'ning  bowl, 
I  drank,  tho'  I  beheld  in  view 

The  deep  damnation  of  the  soul. 
Canst  thou  give  up  thy  wife  to  tears, 

Canst  thou  neglect  thy  children's  home, 
Blast  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 

And  be  a  wretch,  for  what?  —  for  rum? 

Oh  God  !  'tis  cruel  to  resign 

All,  all  thou  lovest  for  mad'ning  drink: 
Forsake  it  then,  and  bliss  is  thine, 

Forsake  and  fly  from  ruin's  brink. 
Think  not  that  I  would  triumph  now, 

Or  yet  insult  thy  generous  soul; 
Oh!  no,  I've  drank  as  deep  as  thou 

The  dark  damnation  of  the  bowl. 


566  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Where  are  our  friends  of  earlier  years, 

The  generous,  gifted  and  the  brave; 
Alas,  full  many  have  in  tears 

Drank  deep  and  filled  a  drunkard's  grave. 
When  in  my  soul  the  serpent  shed 

The  venom  of  his  victory, 
With  Solomon  of  old  I  said — 

All,  all  indeed  is  vanity. 

What  will  it  profit  if  we  gain 

A  world  of  wealth,  and  lose  the  soul? 
Ah !  what  is  glory  to  the  slain  ? 

Where  are  the  blessings  of  the  bowl? 
The  proudest  potentate  must  fall, 

Earth's  sweetest  pleasures  quickly  flee; 
One  hour  of  virtue's  worth  them  all, 

For  all  indeed  is  vanity. 


t  fliuunt  of  Christ. 


AN   ODE. 

ALMIGHTY  God !  I  sing  thy  power, 
When  in  that  dark  and  dreadful  hour, 
Thine  eye  looked  down  from  realms  of  light, 
And  saw  creation  wrapped  in  night — 
When  sin  and  woe  usurped  the  world, 
And  death's  black  banner  was  unfurled; 
When  from  blest  Palestina's  shade, 
Religion  fled  an  exile  maid, 
And  death  and  darkness  ruled  the  land, 
With  Superstition's  wizard  wand. 
Almighty  God !  I  sing  the  hour, 
When  all  death's  potentates  of  power, 
Assembled  on  the  earth,  to  dare 
The  vengeance  of  thine  arm  made  bare, 
And  to  renounce  thy  ancient  right, 
To  rule  the  world  of  life  and  light. 

High  on  the  gorgeous  throne  of  fate, 
Proud  Satan  sat,  enrobed  in  flame, 

And  while  on  man  he  gazed  in  hate, 
Hell  smiled  and  shouted  with  acclaim; 
And  as  he  spoke, 
Loud  thunders   broke, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  567 

And  bloody  Crime  exposed  his  awful  form; 
While  at  the  monarch's  side, 
War  snatched  the  sword  of  pride, 
And  plunged  at  Virtue's  bleeding  bosom  warm. 

Fell  Superstition,  Satan's  child, 
Kneeled  at  his  feet  with  shrieking  wail, 

And  cried,  all  hail !  with  visage  wild, 
And  every  Pagan  temple  echoed,  hail !  all  hail ! 

With  look  severe  and  leering  eye, 
Black  Bigotry  approached  the  throne, 

And  cried,  0  king,  thou  ne'er  shall  die, 
Thou,  thou  canst  rule  the  world  alone; 
And  more  he  would  have  said, 
But  from  her  flowery  bed, 
Soft  Pleasure  leapt  with  bosom  bare, 
Bowed  her  white  knee,  and  waved  her  hanging  hair. 

Darkness  and  death  exulting  rose, 
To  hail  the  monarch  of  his  slaves, 

And  at  each  pause  and  gloomy  close, 
Hell  echoed  triumph  thro'  her  deep  dark  caves. 

But  see !  ah  see !  there  comes  afar, 

A  radiant  light — a  shadowy  car; 

The  harps  of  heaven  resound  above* 

With  hymns  of  everlasting  love, 

While  down  the  skies,  on  wings  of  wind, 

Comes  the  blest  SAVIOUR  of  mankind. 
Amid  the  fiends  of  dark  renown, 

The  Son  of  God  in  glory  stood, 

From  his  high  throne  hurled  Satan  down, 

And  all  his  attributes  subdued. 
While  Superstition  gazed, 
And  hell  stood  back  amazed, 
He  shook  the  heathen  temples  with  his  voice, 
And  with  a  dreadful  look, 
The  thundering  trumpet  took, 
And  bade  the  sons  of  men  rejoice!  rejoice! 

The  idol  tumbled  from  the  tower, 
And  death,  O  God,  was  conquered, — thine. 

Hell  was  the  trophy  of  that  hour, 
When  Pagan  priests  fell  from  their  shrine. 

Hail  gift  divine,  when  to  the  world 

The  glorious  Gospel  was  unfurled, 

When  death  and  darkness  fell  to  earth, 

And  gave  to  man  a  second  birth; 

When  clouds  of  error  passed  away, 

And  heaven's  own  beams  illumed  the  day. 

By  me  the  Saviour's  praise  be  sung, 

Aided  by  time's  eternal  tongue, 

Who  from  Empyrean  scenes  above 

Came  down  in  everlasting  love; 


568  WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD. 

Who  came  mankind  from  death  to  save, 
And  snatched  the  victory  from  the  grave. 
Almighty  God!  thou,  whose  eternal  name 

All  nations  worship,  reverence  and  adore, 
Be  thine  the  wreaths  of  everlasting  fame ! 
Be  thine  the  praise  of  ages  evermore! 
0  bring  the  hour  when  every  rite, 

Thy  glorious  Gospel  shall  engross, 
The  Koran  sink  to  endless  night, 

Nor  let  the  Crescent  triumph  o'er  the  Cross.* 
When  on  that  emblem  he  expired, 
He  who  the  world  with  wisdom  fired, 
All  nature  stood  aghast  and  felt  the  change, 
The  LAW  was  void — the  prophecy  fulfilled, 
And  every  Jewish  heart  conviction  thrilled, 
While  sleeping  nations  rose  to  view  the  conflict  strange! 
Tis  finished  now,  he  cried; 
Bowing  his  head,  he  died, 
And  earth's  firm  fabric  trembled  at  his  voice! 
But  harps  of  heaven  rejoicing  rung, 
Angels  and  men  the  anthem  sung, 
And  bade  the  world,  the  wicked  world  rejoice ! 
And  now,  O  God,  send  forth  his  word, 
Till  every  nation  shall  have  heard 

The  joyous  Jubilee; 
Send  forth  to  Pharisee  and  Scribe, 
To  every  tongue  and  every  tribe, 

The  light  of  Calvary; 
Send  forth  thy  Missionary  bands, 
To  foreign  shores,  to  foreign  lands, 
Till  every  knee  shall  bow  to  One, 
The  God,  the  Father,  and  the  Son, 
And  Israel  from  the  Talmud  flee, 
To  own  the  Christ  of  Calvary. 


<DS  jjutu 


OH  !  I  have  lean  'd  in  deep  despair, 

On  woman's  beating  breast; 
And  felt  that  every  cruel  care 

Was  gone,  and  I  was  blest; 
And  I  have  bask'd  beneath  her  smile, 

When  sorrow  pierced  my  soul; 
And  felt  a  greater  joy  the  while, 

Than  ever  blest  the  bowl. 

Alluding  to  Greece  fighting  under  the  banner  of  the  Cross. 


Cjje  Jtoins  fff  Cinu. 


"THE  car  of  victory,  the  plume,  the  wreath, 

Defend  not  from  the  bolt  of  fate  the  brave  ; 
No  note  the  clarion  of  renown  can  breathe, 

T>  alarm  the  long  night  of  the  lonely  grave, 
Or  check  the  headlong  haste  of  time's  o'erwhelming  wave." 

DR.    P.EATTIK. 

I'NCE  more  hath  the  earth  completed  her  circuit 
[round  the  burning  and  brilliant  luminary  of 
'heaven.  The  wheels  of  time  still  roll  on,  and 
fbury  every  moment  in  the  dust,  the  wrecks  of 
[former  revolutions.  The  monuments  of  art  and 
genius;  the  temples  of  ambition,  pride  andva- 
nity,  every  moment  spring  up,  and  are  hurled 
to  the  earth  in  the  path  of  man,  and  serve  to 
remind  him  of  the  mutability  of  all  human 
greatness  and  all  human  grandeur.  To  him 
how  pregnant  with  instruction  are  the  wrecks, 
and  ruins,  and  revolutions  of  time?  They  are 
the  oracles  of  ages;  they  speak  like  a  trumpet 
from  the  tomb.  They  speak  with  a  voice  of 
thunder  to  the  heart — a  voice  more  impressive 
than  the  tongue  of  Tully;  more  symphonious 
than  the  harp  of  Homer;  more  picturesque  than  the  pencil  of 
Apelles.  I  feel  in  my  soul  the  grandeur  of  my  exalted  theme.  I 
see  the  venerable  shade  of  Time  as  he  stands  for  a  moment  on  the 
pedestal  of  years;  his  white  locks  streaming  in  the  winds  of  winter; 
his  aged  hand  pointing  to  the  ruins  of  empires,  and  his  trembling 
form  bending  over  the  tombs  of  Oriental  genius,  where  the  lamp 
of  glory  still  burns,  and  the  light  of  immortality  streams. 

Roll  back  the  billowy  tide  of  time !  unroll  the  mouldering  record 
of  ages!  What  scenes  are  presented  to  the  startled  imagination 
of  man!  He  beholds  his  own  destiny,  and  the  doom  of  his  noblest 
achievements.  He  builds  the  colossal  temple  of  his  renown;  he 
dedicates  it  to  other  ages;  it  stands  on  a  rock,  and  bathes  its  high 
72 


570  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

battlements  in  the  blue  clouds  of  heaven;  but,  behold!  triumph- 
ant Time  hurls  it  with  all  its  grandeur  to  the  dust.  So  it  is  with 
man  himself,  whose  hot  and  hurried  existence  precipitates  the 
hour  of  his  own  dissolution.  And  so  it  is  with  the  empires  of  the 
earth;  they  rise,  flourish  and  pass  away,  as  if  they  had  never  been. 
Where  now  is  ancient  Egypt,  the  land  of  science  and  sacred 
recollections?  Where  are  her  thousands  of  cities;  her  Thebes; 
her  Memphis;  her  oracle  of  Ammon?  The  red  arm  of  the  Goth 
and  the  Vandal  hath  levelled  them  with  the  dust:  the  serpent  now 
inhabits  the  temple  where  the  worshiper  once  bent  the  knee  of 
adoration ;  the  oracle  hath  been  silent  for  ages,  and  the  priestess 
long  since  fled  from  her  falling  shrine.  And  where  are  the  cloud- 
capt  pyramids  of  Egypt,  the  wonder  of  the  world?  Alas!  they 
stand  as  mournful  monuments  of  human  ambition.  But  where 
are  the  kings  who  planned,  and  the  millions  of  miserable  slaves 
who  erected  them?  Gone  down  to  the  grave;  the  rank  weed 
waves  over  the  sepulchre  of  their  mouldering  bones.  And  such 
shall  be  the  fate  of  those  pyramids  which  have  stood  for  ages  as 
the  beacons  of  misguided  ambition ;  the  wave  of  time  shall  roll 
over  them,  and  bury  them  for  ever  in  the  general  mausoleum 
of  ages. 

And  hath  all  the  glory  and  grandeur  of  the  world  thus  yielded 
to  the  victorious  tooth  of  Time?  Go  seek  an  answer  amid  the 
wrecks  of  Palmyra,  Baalbec  and  Jerusalem.  Behold,  the  city  of 
God  hath  fallen ;  through  her  tottering  temples  and  ruined  battle- 
ments the  shade-born  beetle  wheels  his  dreary  flight,  and  the  roar- 
ing lion  of  the  desert  hath  made  his  lair  in  the  sepulchre  of  the 
Saviour.  The  musing  traveller  in  vain  searches  for  the  splendid 
temple  of  Solomon;  its  crumbling  columns  are  beneath  his  feet; 
its  sublime  imagery  is  pictured  in  the  landscape  of  imagination, 
but  the  glory  of  the  world  hath  departed  for  ever.  Oh,  where  are 
the  millions  of  once  active  beings  who  inhabited  the  sacred  city, 
and  whose  voices  once  made  the  temple  vocal  with  the  songs  of 
praise?  Alas!  they  are  lost  amid  the  undistinguishable  wrecks  of 
time.  Their  bones  are  bleaching  on  their  native  hills,  even  more 
desolate  than  their  once  celebrated  city. 

Time,  like  Death,  is  an  impartial  conqueror.  The  monuments 
of  genius  and  the  arts  fall  alike  before  him  in  the  path  of  his  irre- 
sistible might.  He  hath  uprooted  the  firm  foundations  of  greatness 
and  grandeur;  nor  less  hath  he  desolated  the  gardens  of  Oriental 
genius.  Methinks  I  see  him  pointing  with  triumph  to  the  totter- 
ing temples  of  Greece,  and  smiling  at  the  ruins  of  Athens  and 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  571 

Sparta,  the  homes  of  that  illustrious  philosopher  who  gave  learn- 
ing to  the  imperial  son  of  Philip,  and  where  Solon  and  Lycurgus 
gave  laws  to  the  world.  But  these  cities  are  in  ruins;  their  philo- 
sophers are  dumb  in  death;  the  Academy,  the  Porch,  and  the 
Lyceum  no  longer  resound  with  the  doctrines  of  Plato,  Zeno,  and 
their  illustrious  competitors.  Their  fame  alone  has  survived  the 
general  wreck.  What  a  lesson  is  this  for  the  growing  empires  of 
the  earth?  Greece,  the  glory  of  the  world,  the  bright  luminary  of 
learning,  liberty  and  laws,  prostrate  in  the  dust;  her  light  of 
genius  and  the  arts  quenched  in  the  long  night  of  time;  her  phi- 
losophers, heroes,  statesmen  and  poets  mingling  with  the  frag- 
ments of  her  fallen  grandeur.  Go  to  the  temple  of  Diana,  ai 
Ephesus,  and  the  oracle  of  Delphos,  and  ask  the  story  of  her 
renown,  the  story  of  her  dissolution.  Alas!  that  temple  hath  long 
since  dissolved  in  a  flood  of  flame,  and  the  last  echo  of  that  oracle 
hath  died  on  the  lips  of  ^Eolus.  But  she  fell  not  before  the  flam- 
ing sword  of  Mahomet  without  a  struggle.  It  was  the  last  expir- 
ing struggle  of  a  brave  and  illustrious  race,  and  her  fall  was  like 
that  of  the  Colossus  at  Rhodes;  she  was  recognized  alone  by  the 
fragments  of  her  renown.  When  the  conquering  arm  of  Rome 
spread  the  imperial  banner  above  her  walls,  her  literature  and 
learning  survived  the  fall:  but  when  the  second  time  she  fell  be- 
neath the  Tartar  horde,  the  last  gleam  of  Grecian  glory  was  extin- 
guished in  Byzantium's  tomb. 

Mournful  to  the  mind  of  man  are  the  records  of  departed  great- 
ness. Where  is  the  imperial  city  of  the  Caesars,  the  once  proud 
mistress  of  a  subjugated  world?  She  lies  low,  but  still  mighty  in 
the  dust.  Methinks  I  am  seated  amid  the  melancholy  ruins  of 
Rome.  Around  me  are  strewed  the  crumbling  fragments  of  other 
ages,  and  before  me  are  the  tumbling  temples  once  hallowed  by 
the  footsteps  of  the  Cffisars.  But  where  is  the  cottage  of  Romu- 
lus, the  golden  palace  of  Nero,  and  the  shrine  of  Apollo  and  the 
Muses?  They  are  mingling  with  the  wrecks  of  other  times.  And 
where  is  the  great  Roman  Forum,  in  which  the  thunders  of 
Cicero's  eloquence  once  struck  terror  to  tyrants?  There  the  shep- 
herd-boy roams,  and  the  fleecy  flocks  now  feed.  There,  where 
the  Tribunal  and  the  Rostrum,  the  Comitium  and  the  Curia,  once 
stood,  the  lean  lizard  now  crawls,  and  the  rank  grass  now  waves 
in  the  night  breeze.  Those  walls  are  now  silent,  where  the  tongue 
of  Tully  once  thundered  and  the  applause  of  listening  senates 
reverberated.  And  where  is  that  stupendous  pile,  the  Coliseum, 
which  stood  in  ancient  days  like  a  mountain  of  marble,  and  where 


572  WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILPORD    BARD. 

the  strong-armed  gladiator  bled,  and  the  untamed  tigers  of  the 
forest  died?  Behold,  it  still  stands  tottering  in  decay;  but  the 
thousands  of  spectators  have  departed,  and  the  thunders  of  ap- 
plause have  died  in  echoes  along  the  ruined  arches.  The  red  sun 
now  goes  down  and  sheds  his  last  ray  upon  its  gray  battlements, 
and  the  mellow  moon-beam  glimmers  through  the  ivy-crowned 
walls  and  gloomy  galleries.  The  footsteps  of  the  solitary  traveller 
now  echo  alone  where  the  mighty  Caesars  once  applauded,  and 
the  clash  of  the  combat  sounded.  But  is  this  all?  Alas!  Rome 
is  eloquent  in  ruins;  the  city  of  the  seven  hills  is  strewed  with  the 
fragments  of  other  ages.  Go  muse  over  the  fallen  forums  of  Tra- 
jan, Nerva  and  Domitian;  a  few  pillars  of  Parian  marble  alone 
remain  to  tell  the  world  that  they  once  have  been.  Go  and  gaze 
on  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  the  Caesars;  descend  into  the  cata- 
combs, and  ruminate  amid  the  bleaching  bones  of  the  early  Chris- 
tians, persecuted  by  the  demon  of  superstition  even  to  death.  Go 
climb  the  lofty  towers  of  Rome,  and  survey  the  melancholy  me- 
mentos of  other  times  and  other  men.  And  was  this  the  mighty 
Rome  that  once  stood  against  the  legions  of  Carthage,  led  on  by 
the  victorious  Hannibal?  It  is  the  same,  though  fallen.  And 
where  is  Carthage?  Buried  in  the  vortex  of  oblivion.  Could  the 
shades  of  the  immortal  Cicero,  Horace  and  Virgil  revisit  the  earth, 
and  stray  through  those  scenes  which  they  have  immortalized  in 
song  and  eloquence,  how  would  they  be  struck  with  the  mutability 
of  all  human  grandeur! 

0  Time,  mighty  is  the  strength  of  thy  arm !  The  wonders  of 
the  world  have  fallen  before  thee.  Witness,  ye  walls  of  Babylon, 
covered  with  serial  gardens,  and  thou  great  statue  of  Olympian 
Jove.  The  most  celebrated  cities  of  antiquity  have  been  buried 
beneath  the  irresistible  waves  of  time.  Go  read  an  example  in 
the  fate  of  Syracuse,  the  city  of  Archimedes,  whose  single  arm 
repelled  the  hosts  of  Rome,  and  dared  to  move  the  world  if  he 
might  have  foundations  for  his  feet.  That  splendid  city  is  in  ruins; 
her  philosopher  sleeps  in  the  dust;  and  where  are  his  mighty 
engines  of  war?  They  are  swept  from  the  recollection  of  man. 
Go  and  read  another  example  in  the  fate  of  far-famed  Troy.  Seek 
there  for  the  palaces  of  Priam,  once  illumined  with  the  smiles  of 
the  fickle  though  beautiful  Helen,  for  whom  Sparta  fought  and 
Troy  fell.  Alas!  those  palace  halls  are  silent,  and  the  towers  of 
Ilion  lie  level  with  the  dust.  Old  Priam  hath  long  since  departed 
from  the  earth,  and  the  graves  of  Paris  and  his  paramour  are  un- 
known. The  mighty  Hector,  too,  the  brave  antagonist  of  Achilles, 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  573 

is  no  more.  The  glory  of  the  house  of  Priam  hath  departed  for 
ever.  The  invaders  and  the  invaded  sleep  together  in  the  common 
mausoleum  of  time,  and  their  deeds  live  only  in  the  tide  of  Ho- 
mer's song. 

Such  are  a  few  instances  of  the  ravages  of  time.  Nor  less  hath 
our  own  loved  land  been  the  scene  of  desolation.  Here  may  be 
seen  the  ruins  of  an  Indian  empire,  more  extended  than  the 
empires  of  the  east;  and  though  they  were  the  children  of  the 
forest,  and  though  they  left  no  monuments  of  sculpture,  painting 
and  poesy,  yet  great  were  they  in  their  fall,  and  sorrowful  is  the 
story  of  their  wrongs.  They  once  had  cities,  but  where  are  they? 
They  are  swept  from  the  face  of  the  earth.  They  had  their  temple 
of  the  sun,  but  the  sanctuary  is  broken  down,  and  the  beams  of 
the  deified  luminary  extinguished.  It  is  true  they  worshiped  the 
Great  Spirit  and  the  genius  of  storms  and  darkness;  the  sacred 
pages  of  revelation  had  never  been  unrolled  to  them;  the  gospel 
of  the  Saviour  had  never  sounded  in  the  ears  of  the  poor  children 
of  the  forest.  They  heard  the  voice  of  their  God  in  the  morning 
breeze ;  they  saw  him  in  the  dark  cloud  that  rose  in  wrath  from 
the  west;  they  acknowledged  his  universal  beneficence  in  the 
setting  sun,  as  he  sunk  to  his  burning  bed.  Here  another  race 
once  lived  and  loved;  here,  along  these  shores,  the  council-fire 
blazed,  and  the  war-whoop  echoed  among  their  native  hills.  Here 
the  dark-browed  Indian  once  bathed  his  manly  limbs  in  the  river, 
and  his  light  canoe  was  seen  to  glide  over  his  own  loved  lakes. 
Centuries  passed  away,  and  they  still  roved  the  undisputed  mas- 
ters of  the  western  world.  But  at  length  a  pilgrim  bark,  deep 
freighted  from  the  east,  came  darkening  on  their  shores.  They 
yielded  not  their  empire  tamely,  but  they  could  not  stand  against 
the  sons  of  light — they  fled.  With  slow  and  solitary  steps  they 
took  up  their  mournful  march  to  the  west,  and  yielded,  with  a 
broken  heart,  their  native  hills  to  another  race.  They  left  their 
homes  and  the  graves  of  their  fathers  to  explore  the  western  woods, 
where  no  human  foot  had  ever  trod,  and  no  human  eye  ever  pene- 
trated. From  time  to  time  they  have  been  driven  back,  and  the 
next  remove  will  be  to  the  bosom  of  the  stormy  Pacific.  Unhappy 
children !  the  tear  of  pity  has  been  shed  over  your  wrongs  and 
your  sufferings.  What  bosom  but  beats  with  sympathy  over  the 
mournful  story; of  their  woes?  As  a  race  of  men,  they  are  fast 
fading  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  ere  many  centuries  shall 
have  passed,  they  will  have  been  swept  from  the  annals  of  ages. 
Ere  long  the  last  wave  of  the  west  will  roll  over  them,  and  their 


574  WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD, 

deeds  will  live  only  in  the  traditions  they  shall  have  left  behind  them. 
The  march  of  mind  hath  been  to  them  the  march  to  the  grave. 
Every  age  they  have  rapidly  declined,  and  a  lingering  remnant  is 
now  left  to  sigh  over  the  ruins  of  their  empire,  and  the  memory 
of  their  brave  progenitors.  The  golden  harvest  now  waves  over 
the  tombs  of  their  fallen  fathers,  and  the  forest  that  once  echoed 
the  war-dance  is  now  covered  with  the  rising  city.  Where  the 
wigwam  once  stood,  the  tall  temple,  dedicated  to  God,  now  glit- 
ters in  the  setting  sun ;  and  the  river,  unrippled  but  by  the  Indian 
canoe,  is  now  white  with  the  sails  of  commerce.  And  when  they 
shall  have  passed  away — when  the  last  Indian  shall  have  stood 
upon  his  native  hills  in  the  west,  and  shall  have  worshiped  the 
setting  sun  for  the  last  time — perhaps  some  youth  may  rove  to  the 
green  mound  of  Indian  sepulture,  and  ask  with  wonder  what 
manner  of  beings  they  were.  How  must  the  poor  child  of  the 
forest  weep,  and  how  must  his  heart  throb  with  anguish,  when  he 
muses  on  the  ruins  of  his  race,  and  the  melancholy  destiny  of  his 
children?  The  plough-share  hath  passed  over  the  bones  of  his 
ancestors,  and  they  sleep  in  the  land  of  strangers  and  of  the  con- 
querors of  their  dying  race.  Methinks  I  see  the  stately  Indian, 
as  he  bends  from  the  brow  of  the  misty  mountain,  and  surveys 
with  a  swelling  heart  the  once  extended  limits  of  the  Indian  em- 
pire. The  grief  of  years  is  in  his  soul,  and  he  bends  his  knee  in 
meek  submission  before  the  Great  Spirit  in  the  clouds.  Unhappy 
child! — my  soul  mourns  over  the  ruined  hopes  of  your  fading  race. 


THERE'S  music,  when  at  morn,  the  wild  wind's  sighs 
A  concord  in  the  green  old  woodlands  wake; 

There's  music,  when  at  eve,  some  flute-note  dies, 
In  distance,  o'er  the  lucid  moonlit  lake. 

And  I  have  sat,  romantic  Brandywine, 

Upon  thy  rocks  the  birds'  sweet  hymns  to  hear, 

In  the  great  church  of  nature, — notes  divine, 
Discoursing  music  to  my  raptured  ear. 

But  never  hath  the  poet's  spirit  hung 

On  tones  so  touching,  when  they  softly  roll, 

As  those  that  fall  from  witching  woman's  tongue, 
Bathing  in  bliss  the  enchanted  listener's  soul. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILFORD    BARD.  575 


Sfonjamin  /rankliti 


HE  was   the  glory  of  his  age, 

The  wonder  of  mankind; 
Statesman,  philosopher  and  sage, 

A  man  of  mighty  mind; 
In  living  light  the  hand  of  fame 

Recorded  his   renown; 
To   millions  of  mankind  his   name 

Shall  still  be  handed  down. 

From  pinching  penury  he  sprung, 

And   step  by  step  arose 
Where  learning's  awful  accents  rung, 

And  triumphed  o'er  his  foes; 
Amid   the  Fathers  of  the  free, 

The  mighty  statesman   stood; 
The  friend  of  man  and  liberty, 

The  blessed  gift  of  God. 

Amid  philosophers  he  shone, 

In   science'  halls  of  pride; 
To  all   the  brilliant  nations   known, 

O'er  old  Atlanta's  tide: 
Error  in   science  doomed  to  fall, 

By  his  proud  hand  was  hurled: 
His   wond'rous  powers  astonished  all 

The  wise  men  of  the  world. 

The  mysteries  that  Nature  shrouds, 

To  him   were  freely  given: 
He  snatched  the  lightning  from  the  clouds, 

The  thunderbolt  of  heaven; 
In   majesty  of  mind  he  reigned, 

Bade  nature's  laws  conform; 
He  raised  his   daring  hand,  and  chained 

The  spirit  of  the  storm. 

Like  mighty  Jove  then  stood  the  sage, 

Astonished   in   his  pride; 
The  terror  of  the  tempest's   rage 

Was  trembling  at  his   side: 
Fame,  from   Olympus'  lofty  height, 

Beheld  his  glorious  march; 
And  wrote  his   name  in  lines   of  light, 

On  heaven's  mighty  arch. 


576  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


*nrq  Cinq. 


WHEN  in  the  south  a  civil  war 

Came  like  a  cloud  of  night; 
And  carnage  leaped  into  her  car, 

To  seek  the  field  of  fight; 
When  sons  of  those  immortal  sires, 

Who  bled  at  Bunker  Hill, 
Rushed  forth  to  light  their  battle-fires, 

A  brother's  blood  to  spill; 

When  from  the  vault  of  Vernon  first 

A  cry  was  heard  aloud; 
And  the  woi-d  Peace,  in  thunder  burst 

From  many  a  bloody  shroud; 
When  swords  leaped  to  the  hero's  hand, 

And  glittered  in  our  gaze; 
And  terror  reigned  throughout  the  land, 

As  in  those  by-gone  days; 

The  Solon  of  the  Senate  stood, 

Alone  and  undismayed; 
And  for  his  much  loved  country's  good, 

The  flag  of  peace  displayed; 
High  in  the  forum  and  afar, 

His  mighty  mind  he  cast; 
Carnage  fell  from  the  crimson  car, 

The  storm  of  war  was  past. 

Unearthly  eloquence  then  broke 

Upon  the  listener's  ear; 
The  Senate  shouted  as  he  spoke, 

And  wondering  leaned  to  hear; 
Trembling  they  saw  that  hope  was  nigh, 

And  hailed  the  happy  day; 
The  thunders  in  the  southern  sky, 

Rolled  peacefully  away. 

The  wise  man  of  the  west  arose, 

And  with  a  Tully's  tongue, 
Silenced  the  voice  of  freedom's  foes; 

A  rainbow  round  us  hung; 
A  mighty  nation  saw  the  deed, 

The  flag  of  peace  unfurled; 
Europe  beheld  and  gave  the  meed 

Of  an  admiring  world. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  577 

The  pen  of  gold,  the  hand  of  Fame 

From  her  high  temple  took, 
And  wrote  his  never-dying  name 

In  Time's  eternal  book: 
With  all  the  fathers  of  the  free, 

He  shall  in  glory  rest; 
By  millions  yet  unborn  shall  be, 

Thro'  future  ages,  blest. 

No  marble  monument  he  needs, 

To  crumble  and  decay; 
The  mem'ry  of  his  mighty  deeds 

Can  never  pass  away; 
Within  a  nation's  heart  enshrined, 

Sarcophagus  sublime ! 
His  glorious  monument  of  mind 

Knows  not  the  touch  of  Time. 


njjn 


THE  AMERICAN  LYCURGUS  IN  LEARNING,  LIBERTY  AND  LAW. 

Tis  not  alone  in  lofty  halls, 

Where  learning  sits  enshrined, 
His  eloquence  sublimely  falls, 

And  marks  his  mighty  mind; 
But  in  the  temple  of  the  free 

His  thunder  tones  have  rung — 
His  father's  love  of  liberty 

Falls  from  his  tuneful  tongue. 

Sublime  in  sentiment  and  soul, 

To  him  all  wreaths  belong; 
His  polished  periods  richly  roll 

Along  the  chords  of  song: 
He  wakes  to  war  the  mournful  wire 

On  Ireland's  lovely  plains; 
He  wakes  to  liberty  his  lyre, 

And  weeps  o'er  Erin's  chains. 

Whether  in  council  or  at  court, 

Or  at  the  harp  or  hall — 
Whether  in  seriousness  or  sport, 

His  graceful  accents  fall — 
73 


578  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILPORD    BARD. 

He  is  in  grandeur  still  the  same; 

Time  hath  no  merit  hurled — 
His  trophies,  treasured  up  by  Fame, 

Are  wonders  of  the  world. 

Time  can  no  triumph  o'er  him  ,own, 

Though  snows  his  brow  may  bind; 
Reason  still  sits  upon  her  throne, 

The  monarch  of  his  mind; 
The  glory  of  his  by-gone  hours, 

Through  ages  yet  shall  last; 
Fame  gathers  up  his  present  flowers, 

To  bloom  with  all  the  past. 

Ah !  had  he  lived  in  that  proud  day, 

Ere  Greece  became  the  grave 
Of  glorious  men,  long  passed  away, 

The  brilliant  and  the  brave, 
The  marble  cenotaph  sublime, 

The  column  and  the  crown, 
Would  still  transmit,  to  future  time, 

His  record  of  renown. 

Yet  while  the  love  of  liberty, 

Of  learning  and  of  song, 
Shall  warm  the  proud  hearts  of  the  free, 

Or  shall  to  Fame  belong, 
The  mem'ry  of  his  magic  mind 

Shall  wander  o'er  the  wave, 
And  win  from  millions  of  mankind 

A  garland  for  his  grave. 


of  iojjn 


ANOTHER  brilliant  star  has  disappeared, 

From  the  great  mental  system,  and  has  left 

A  mighty  void,  which  ages  may  not  fill; 

A  glorious  planet  hath  been  quenched,  which  long 

The  intellectual  concave  had  illumed, 

With  lustre  uneclipsed  by  other  orbs. 

Yea!  a  great  sun,  round  which  full  many  a  star, 

Of  minor  brilliance,  circulating,  shone 

But  with  reflected  light,  is  now  no  more. 


WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  579 

He  was,  indeed,  a  wondrous  man,  whose  mind 
Seemed,  without  effort,  to  aspire  and  soar 
Thro'  all  the  fields  of  intellect,  and  drink 
Deep  inspiration  from  all  founts  of  thought. 
In  all  things,  intuition  seemed  to  mark 
The  progress  of  his  mental  march ;  for  all 
The  garlands  learning  glories  in,  were  given 
To  grace  his  noble  brow ;  and  at  his  feet, 
Fame  laid  the  trophies  of  immortal  genius. 
The  halls  of  learning,  which  thro'  life  he  trod, 
Still  bear  the  mementos  of  his  mighty  mind; 
And  the  proud  monument  his  genius  reared, 
Untouched  by  the  corroding  tooth  of  time, 
Will  stand  amid  the  storms  of  centuries, 
A  model  and  memorial  to  mankind, 
Bearing  a  record  of  his  bright  renown, 
And  of  his  deathless  deeds. 

In  the  Pantheon  of  illustrious  men, 
He  stood  the  Olympian  Jupiter,  whose  tongue 
Wielded  the  thunder-bolts  of  eloquence — 
The  lightning  flame  of  freedom,  which  went  forth 
To  blast  the  oppressor,  and  redress  the  wrongs 
Of  injured  innocence,  long  groaning  'neath 
The  galling  yoke  of  servitude  and  toil. 

Amid  the  statesmen  of  his  native  land 
He  shone  conspicuous,  and  the  helm  of  State 
Held  with  a  master-hand.     But  not  alone 
Was  he  illustrious  in  eloquence, 
In  statesmanship,  philanthropy,  and  zeal 
For  learning,  liberty,  religion,  law ; 
But  he  was  foremost  of  that  glorious  band, 
Now  fighting  bravely  for  reform,  in  all 
That  is  connected  with  the  good  of  man. 
And  not  alone  did  listening  Senates  lean 
When,  with  a  Tully's  tongue,  he  thundered  fortli 
Sublimest  strains  of  eloquence;  but  oft 
He  woke  the  lyre  to  liberty,  and  sung 
Of  Erin's  earlier  days  and  heroes  brave. 

Nature  to  him  was  liberal,  for  she  gave 
Her  brightest  talents,  which  have  been  improved 
Beyond  tha  usual  measure:  but,  alas! 
Freedom's  great  champion  is  no  more — that  mind, 
Which  was  a  world  within  itself,  is  gone 
Back  to  its  great  Creator;  and  the  light 
It  shed  in  brilliance  on  mankind,  is  quenched 
In  the  lone  gloom  of  the  grave.     But  still  he  lives — 
Lives  in  the  hearts  of  millions,  and  while  time 
Shall  last,  his  virtues  will  survive,  and  be 
Beacons  and  blessings,  through  all  coming  years, 
To  millions  yet  unborn- 


680  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 


latml 


THE  DEMOSTHENES  OP   AMEfilCA. 

No  college  halls  his  feet  have  trod — 

No  Alma  Mater  boasts  his  name — 
But  by  the  glorious  gift  of  God, 

The  son  of  genius  rose  to  fame: 
By  native  merit  of  the  mind, 

He  graced  the  records  of  renown; 
His  deeds  to  millions  of  mankind 

By  Time  shall  be  transmitted  down. 

Fame  to  her  temple  took  the  sage, 

And  wrote — her  record  to  adorn — 
WEBSTER,  the  glory  of  the  age, 

And  wonder  of  a  world  unborn ! 
Carved  in  her  columns  shall  remain 

His  name  in  characters  of  fire; 
In  forum  and  in  Freedom's  fane, 

The  mightiest  minds  shall  yet  admire. 

I  saw  him  in  the  Senate  stand, 

Like  Jove,  with  all  his  thunder  rods, 
His  terrors,  with  a  mighty  hand, 

Hurling  among  the  trembling  gods: 
The  Senate  trembled  as  he  spoke 

In  tones  of  thunder — now  of  mirth; 
Now  from  his  lips  the  lightning  broke, 

And  crushed  corruption  to  the  earth. 

With  Herculean  hand  he  rent 

The  rattling  chains  of  slavery, 
And  round  the  Senate  nobly  bent 

The  rainbow  rays  of  liberty. 
Pleased,  with  his  own  immortal  powers, 

He  stretched  again  his  liberal  hand, 
And  scattered  fancy's  fairest  flowers 

In  beauty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

Where  England's  lofty  temples  tower, 

Amid  her  halls  his  voice  was  heard; 
Her  men  of  mind  have  felt  his  power, 

And  starting,  wondered  at  each  word! 
For  though  his  fame  had  gone  before, 

And  shed  in  all  her  halls  his  light, 
Admiring  now,  they  marvelled  more, 

That  they  had  known  but  half  his  might. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE   MILFORD    BARD.  581 

Time  shall  his  temples  still  adorn 

With  wreaths  that  must  for  ever  bloom, 
And  men  of  ages  yet  unborn 

Shall  mark  the  trophies  of  his  tomb; 
Millions  shall  bow  before  his  shrine, 

When  tombs  and  temples  have  been  hurled, 
And  own  his  eloquence  divine, 

The  glory  of  the  western  world. 


nbiln, 


AND  DEATH  OF  JOHN  ADAMS  AND  THOMAS  JEFFERSON, 
Which  occurred  simultaneously  on  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  American  Independence. 

HIGH  o'er  a  hundred  hills  of  fire 

I  saw  the  blazing  brand; 
A  nation  lit  the  funeral  pyre, 

The  funeral  filled  the  land; 
Fame  held  the  trump  of  triumph  high, 

To  sound  OPPRESSION'S  doom; 
The  shouts  of  men  swept  thro'  the  sky, 

And  hailed  the  tyrant's  tomb. 

The  cloud  of  war  had  rolled  to  rest, 

Far  in  the  ocean  flood; 
The  sun  that  lingered  in  the  west, 

Had  long  since  set  in  blood; 
And  down  the  tide  of  time  afar, 

Full  many  a  bark  had  gone; 
Since  whirlwinds  wheeled  the  crimson  car, 

And  war's  dread  blast  was  blown. 

It  was  the  glorious  Jubilee, 

The  birth-day  of  the  brave; 
The  advent  of  blest  Liberty 

From   slavery  to  save; 
But  ah !   amid  the  festive  halls, 

Death  held  his  red  arm  high, 
The  pride  of  fame  and  freedom  falls, 

Two  glorious  patriots  die. 


582  WRITINGS    OP   THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Ten  thousand  hearts  have  mourned  the  doom, 

And  wept  for  Washington; 
Ten  thousand  hands  shall  strew  thy  tomb, 

Immortal  Jefferson ! 
And  Adams,  thy  renown  sublime, 

A  hundred  harps  shall  raise, 
While  sounds  the  trumpet  tongue  of  Time, 

Thy  plentitude  of  praise. 


Injjn  3&.  Cliujtnn. 

THOU  son  of  genius,  glory  of  our  State, 

No  song  of  fulsome  flattery  I  raise; 
In  every  march  of  mind  thou  hast  been  great, 

And  worthy  of  all  patriotic  praise. 

Like  some  tall  oak,  defying  storms  of  Time, 
The  monarch  of  the  mountain  in  its  might; 

I've  seen  thee  stand,  while  eloquence  sublime 

Pour'd  from  thy  lips,  like  streams  of  liquid  light. 

The  walls  of  Washington  have  oftimes  rung 

Thy  tones,  that  listening  Senates  lean'd  to  hear; 

Tones  that  were  sweet  as  fell  from  Tully's  tongue 
In  Rome's  proud  forum,  chaining  every  ear. 

Well  may  fair  Del 'ware  sound  afar  thy  fame! 

Well  may  the  "Banner  State"*  thy  paean  breathe! 
For  Fame  already  doth  around  thy  name, 

The  garland  of  the  Statesman's  glory  wreathe. 

Thou  art  her  Ajax,  by  thy  councils  wise, 
She  in  her  independence  stands  alone; 

Unlike  her  sister  States,  she  dares  to  rise, 
And  cry  aloud — THIS  LAND  is  ALL  MY  OWN  ! 

Thou  son  of  genius,  'tis  not  now  I  sing 
Thy  praise  in  party  spirit,  but  in  truth; 

Permit  me  now  a  garland  bright  to  bring 
To  grace  thy  brow,  thou  schoolmate  of  my  youth. 

'  The  State  of  Delaware  if  now  thus  designated  in  the  city  of  Baltimore. 


WRITINGS    OF   THE    MILPORD    BARD.  583 


StonaparU. 


THE  terror  of  Europe  has  gone  to  his  rest, 

In  the  pride  of  his  power  and  glory  ; 
He  sunk  like  a  star  in  the  waves  of  the  west, 

But  he  lives  on  the  pages  of  story. 

He  rose  like  the  sun  from  the  billowy  flood, 

To  the  deeds  of  his  early  devotion; 
Like  the  moon  he  went  down  in  a  billow  of  blood, 

On  the  breast  of  an  isle  in  the  ocean. 

In  the  field,  when  he  stood  in  his  frenzy  alone, 

The  foeman  fled  from  him  affrighted; 
The  Bourbon  beheld  him  on  Gallia's  throne, 

With  the  crown  and  the  crosier  united. 

From  the  throne  of  the  Stuart,  to  that  of  the  Czar, 

The  knell  of  his  vengeance  resounded; 
He  sent  forth  his  thunder  from  Victory's  car, 

And  the  proudest  of  princes  confounded. 

He  levelled  his  lightnings  at  Austria  and  Spain  — 

At  the  Holy  Alliance  assembled; 
He  sounded  the  knell  of  his  vengeance  again, 

And  Europe,  still  tottering,  trembled. 

Like  the  comet,  the  brightest  amid  millions  of  stars, 

To  Moscow  he  marched  a  Banditti;* 
He  seated  himself  on  the  throne  of  the  Czars, 

Midst  the  flames  of  a  sinking  city. 

Twas  the  first  of  his  fall  —  but  the  giant  again, 

Hope's  promises  dared  to  rely  on; 
But  the  Corsican  Tiger,  on  Waterloo's  plain, 

Was  the  victim  of  Albion's  Lion. 

He  fell  like  a  star  thro'  the  heavens,  at  night, 

In  the  blaze  of  its  beautiful  splendor; 
But  the  brilliance,  that  beamed  on  the  path  of  his  might, 

Struck  the  nations  of  Europe  with  wonder. 

He  has  gone  to  his  rest,  from  the  turmoil  of  war, 

On  an  isle  in  the  dark  swelling  ocean; 
Seven  willows  now  weep  o'er  his  ashes,  afar 

From  the  scenes  of  his  splendid  devotion. 

*A  designation,  by  a  late  writer,  of  Napoleon's  army, 


584  WBITINGS    OP   THE   MILFORD   BARD. 

The  terror  of  Europe  has  gone  to  his  rest, 
In  the  pride  of  his  power  and  glory; 

He  sunk  like  a  star  in  the  waves  of  the  west, 
But  he  lives  on  the  pages  of  story. 


dinar. 


I  SAW  a  mother  lead  her  son 

High  up  the  hill  of  fame; 
And  point  to  deeds  of  glory,  won 

For  many  a  shining  name. 
And  as  the  youth,  with  lips  apart, 

Grazed  on  the  temple  high, 
The  fame  of  Franklin  touched  his  heart, 

And  caught  his  kindling  eye. 

Go !  emulate  your  noble  sires, 

The  musing  mother  said, 
And  feel  the  flame  of  Freedom's  fires, 

Like  these,  the  mighty  dead. 
She  said — with  Gothic  triumph  turned, 

See  there,  she  cried,  my  son; 
The  youth,  while  yet  his  bosom  burned, 

Beheld  great  Washington. 

Mother,  the  warrior  deals  in  blood! 

The  youthful  hero  cried; 
But  in  his  country's  cause  he  stood ! 

The  mother  quick  replied; 
His  valor  sprung  from  virtue,  he 

Too  fought  for  virtuous  fame; 
Behold  his  wreaths  of  liberty ! 

And  bless  his  noble  name. 

She  spake,  and  swift  the  trump  of  war, 

Swept  wildly  through  the  land; 
Her  son  flew  to  the  fight  afar, 

And  waved  his  daring  hand; 
And  when  the  shout  of  victory  rose, 

He  cried,  my  mother  dear, 
The  wreaths  of  conquest  bind  my  brows,- 

Behold  thy  hero  here! 


WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFOKD    BARD.  585 

Fame  blew  the  blast  to  Europe's  shore, 

Behold!   behold!   she  cried, 
Another  Washington  shall  soar 

The  height  of  human  pride. 
Europe  beheld,  of  liberty, 

Far  in  the  south,  the  star; — 
The  world  proclaimed  the  victory 

Of  glorious  BOLIVAR. 


'Tis  sweet  to  think  in  after  years, 
On  those  we  prized  or  deeply  loved-, 

Though  many  a  tide  of  tender  tears, 
Have  oft  our  fond  affection  proved. 

Tis  sweet,  when  round  the  turret  moans 
The  north  wind,  and  the  snow  descends, 

To  listen  to  those  solemn  tones, 
That  seem  to  grieve  for  absent  friends. 

Ah!   oft  I  sit,  when  dim  night  throws 
Her  murky  mantle  o'er  the  earth; 

To  dream  of  happier  days,  and  those 
Whom  once  I  prized  above  all  worth. 

And  oft,  when  on  yon  cold  pale  star 
I  gaze  and  weep,  I  think  of  one 

Who  sleeps  within  her  tomb  afar, 
Unconscious  of  the  heart  she  won. 

Oh!   she  was  fair,  for  to  her  brow, 
An  angel's  purity  was  given; 

Methinks  I  see  her  dark  eye  now, 

Beaming  with  all  the  charms  of  Heaven. 

Her  form  and  features  wore  a  grace, 
That  none  but  angels  ever  wore; 

Shall  I  behold  that  heavenly  face, 
And  bow  to  that  fair  form  no  more? 

Said  I  her  tomb? — Nay,  in  this  breast, 
Grief  only  o'er  her  grave  hath  knelt; 

There  sleeps  the  vow  which  once  she  blest, 
There  pines  the  passion  once  I  felt. 

47 


586  WRITINGS    OF    THE    MILFORD    BARD. 

Oh!  there  is  in  the  brightest  smile, 
Deceit  and  doubt  and  fancied  fears; 

But,  ah !  in  grief  there  is  no  guile, 
There  is  no  treachery  in  tears, 

The  loveliest  lips  may  oft  betray, 
The  brightest  eye  too  oft  deceives; 

The  tongue  that  wins  the  soul  away, 
May  blast  when  most  the  heart  believes, 

Oh!  tell  me  not  the  gay  heart  feels, 
Or  that  the  sunny  brow  beguiles; 

More  truth  affection's  sigh  reveals, 
One  tear  is  worth  a  thousand  smiles, 

Oh !  Mary,  when  within  the  grave, 
With  thousands  I  shall  be  forgot; 

One  pensive  tear  from  thee  I  crave, 
Orje  sigh  breath 'd  o'er  the  silent  spot, 


Ia0t  limn  of  tfr* 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  FRIEND. 

Mr  weary  head  must  soon  repose 

Upon  its  bed  of  clay; 
For  heavy,  heavy  are  the  woes 

That  cloud  my  life's  young  day. 

I  soon  shall  sleep  to  wake  no  more, 
Till  heaven's  loud  trump  shall  sound; 

My  harp  the  winds  will  soon  sweep  o'er, 
Or  dashed,  fall  to  the  ground. 

The  Muses  oft  in  yonder  cell, 
Have  taught  me  music's  strain; 

And  I  have  loved  the  Nine  full  well — 
The  solace  of  my  pain. 

My  lyre  is  on  the  willow  hung, 

It  sighs  no  more  its  lays; 
Its  strings,  bewildered,  are   unstrung, 

The  north  wind  thro'  it  plays. 


WRITINGS    OP   THfi    MILPORD    BARD. 

All,  all  is  lost,  to  me  so  dear, 

Save  ruins  and  a  name; 
The  sigh  is  mine,  and  mine  the  tear, 

But  not  the  wreath  of  fame. 

Yet  will  I  not  forget  in  death, 

Thy  generous  love  to  me; 
I'll  bless  thee  with  my  latest  breath — 

Yea,  through  eternity. 

God  grant  that  you  may  never  feel, 

The  ills  that  I  have  known; 
But  may  life's  current  softly  steal 

Where  sweetest  flowers  are  strown. 


587 


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Banquet  of  Theodulus,  or  the  Re-  Union  of  the  Different  Christian  Com- 
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Christianity  and  the  Church,  by  the  Rev.  Charles  Constanline  Pise,  D.  D. 

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Bishop  England's  Works,  published  under  the  auspices  and  immediate 

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the  style  of  the  writer,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  language  which  he  used  to  embody  the  analytical  deductions  made 
by  his  gigantic  mind.  His  Discourses  furnish  Models  of  Oratory  worthy  of  imitation  by  Divines,  Statesmen,  and 
members  of  the  Legal  Profession.  It  is  difficult  to  say  in  what  Dr.  England  excelled  ;— as  an  orator,  he  was 
great,  sublime,  thrilling: — as  a  Theologian,  his  profound  erudition,  and  familiarity  with  the  writings  of  the  Fathers 
of  the  Church,  and  with  Ecclesiastical  History  of  all  ages,  and  all  countries,  place  him  high  amongst  the  highest: — 
as  a  Controversialist,  the  evenness  of  his  temper,  the  lucidity  of  his  reasoning,  and  the  force  of  his  language, 
command  for  him  the  respect  of  his  antagonist,  and  the  admiration  of  all  his  readers. 

"  We  trust  that  Protestant  and  Catholic  will  vie  with  each  other  in  shewing  that  they  love  literature  and  ap- 
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STANDARD     SCHOOL     BOOKS. 

JOHN  MURPHY  &  CO.  PUBLISHERS  &  BOOKSELLERS,  178  Market  St.,  Bait. 

Desire  to  invite  particular  attention  to  the  following  list  of  STANDARD  SCHOOL  BOOKS,  of  their  own  publication, 
most  of  them  having  been  compiled,  or  carefully  revised,  by  M.  J.  Kerney,  Esq  ,  a  gentleman  of  distinguished 
ability,  and  a  Practical  Teacher  of  many  years  experience.  The  others,  with  the  exception  of  McSherry's  His- 
tory of  Maryland,  were  originally  published  by  the  Metropolitan  Press,  under  the  auspices  and  careful  supervision 
of  the  Eminent  Professors  of  St.  Mary's  College,  Baltimore.  These  considerations  they  trust  will  be  sufficient 
to  invite  a  careful  examination  from  the  principals  and  conductors  of  Schools  throughout  the  country. 

Teachers,  and  others,  who  may  desire  to  introduce  any  of  the  following  works,  will  be  supplied  with  copies 
for  examination,  or  Catalogues  containing  recommendations,  on  application  personally,  or  by  letter,  prepaid. 

Kerney 's  Catechism  History  of  the  U.  States..  12    * Kerney 's  Abridgment  of  Murray's  Grammar 

First  Class  Book  of  History 25  and  Exercise 15 

Compendium  of  Ancient  and  Modern          Introduction  to  Columbian  Arithmetic.  13 

History 75    Columbian  Arithmetic 38 

*  This  Grammar  has  been  introduced  into  the  Public  Schools  of  Baltimore. 

Irving's  Series  of  School  Catechisms,  in  Imparts.  Revised  by  M.  J.  KERNEY,  Esq. 

Catechism  of  Astronomy 13     Catechism  of  Mythology 13     Catechism  of  Roman  History .  13 

Botany 13    History  United  States . .  13    Jewish  Antiquities 13 

Practical  Chemistry. . . .13    Grecian  History 13    Grecian  Antiquities . .  ..13 

Classical  Biography. ...  13    — —  History  of  England  ...  13    .Roman  Antiquities  ....  13 

Catechism  of  Sacred  History — abridged 13    Murray's  English  Grammar — complete  ...   .20 

Fredet's  Ancient  History,  from  the  dispersion  of  the  Sons  of  Noe,  to  the  change  of  the  Roman 

Republic  into  an  Empire 88 

Fredet's  Modern  History,  from  the  coming  of  Christ  to  the  year  of  our  Lord  1850 88 

These  two  volumes  form  a  complete  connection  or  continuous  chain  of  historical  events  from  the  creation  of 
the  world  to  the  year  1850. 

McSherry's  History  of  Maryland,  with  Questions,  &c 75 

OFFICE  or  THE  COMMISSIONERS  OF  PUBLIC  SCHOOLS, 
Messrs.  JOHN  MURPHY  &  Co.  BALTIMORE,  Feb.  10,  1852. 

Gentlemen, — The  Commissioners  of  Public  Schools,  after  a  careful  examination,  have  unanimously  adopted 
McSherry's  History  of  Maryland,  Abridged,  for  use  in  the  Schools  under  their  supervision,  believing  it  to  be  ad- 
mirably adapted  to  the  instruction  of  youth.  J.  W.  TILYARD,  Clerk  Commissioners  of  Public  School*. 

Epitome  HistoricE  Sacrce 30  Biblische  Geschichte  des  Alien  und  Neuen  Tes- 

Viris  Illustribus  Roma 38         tamentes 25 

Phcedri  Fabulce 30  Silabario  Castellano ,  para  el  uso  de  los  Ninos .  25 

Selectee  Ovidii  FabulcE 38  Silabario  Castellano,  para  el  uso  de  las  -Vinos . 25 

Fables  Choisies  de  La  Fontaine 63  Elementos  de  Sicologio,  Elements  of  Psycho- 

A  B  C  und  Buckstabir  und  Lesebuch,  German  logy 75 

Primer 13  Pizorro's  Dialogues,  Spanish  and  English . .  .75 

Katholischer  Katechismus,  Ger.  Catechism ...  19  Catechism  of  Scripture  History — in  Press. 

{i£^  A  liberal  discount  is  made  from  the  foregoing  prices  to  Booksellers,  Teachers,  and  others,  purchasing  in 
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new  works  on  Education  as  soon  as  issued — and  to  keep  a  large  stock  constantly  on  hand,  which  enables  them 
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Their  stock  of  SCHOOL  STATIONERY  embraces  every  thing  requisite— all  of  which  they  are  prepared  to 
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